“But they may, and probably will consider that secret of sufficient importance to the State to insist upon its disclosure, and if the poor boy, as will very likely be the case, refuse to tell, they will see what the thumb-screw, or failing that, even the rack, may effect.”
“Good heavens! Saint Joseph forbid.”
“Amen; but the best way is to keep Cuthbert out of the way.”
“Too late; for here he is!”
The door opened and our hero entered, all flushed with travel, and with the delight of meeting his old friends, whom he embraced warmly; after which he saluted the priest with a lowly reverence.
“How well he is looking, poor lad,” said the dame: for his face was flushed with pleasure, or she might still have seen some traces of his recent trial. A more thoughtful expression sat on his features, such a period as he had gone through had done the work of years in sobering his boyish spirits, and bringing on, prematurely, the thoughts and cares of manhood.
“Now, Cuthbert,” said the good priest, “I will take a turn on the green, while you tell all your news to your kind friends, and satisfy your hunger, and after that I will return for a little talk with you;” and he went out, but only to pace up and down the green, keeping the cottage still in sight.
And we too will leave the good souls within to their endearments for the same space of time; they will soon know the extent of the danger in which their foster boy is placed.
But the priest knows it, and he walks up and down, peering sometimes into the darkness beyond the green, in the direction of the town, scrutinizing the faces of the passers-by, until curfew rings from the tower of his own church. Then he re-enters the cottage.