Philip Jamblin had always been a special favourite with the labourers on Stoke Ferry Farm. It will therefore be readily understood that the sight of his remains had a powerful effect upon those who went in search of him.
At first the farm labourers were too much appalled to give expression to their feelings by words.
They stared at the ghastly face in stupid astonishment, then they moaned, and glanced around, as if they expected to see the assassin lurking in some dark corner.
But all was silent—as silent as the grave.
“Who ha’ done this deed?” exclaimed Joe Doughty. “A blighting curse cling to ’im whoever he may be. A blighting curse.”
Footsteps were now heard proceeding from the further end of the road.
The men glanced in the direction from whence they proceeded.
“It be measter a comin’ this way,” they exclaimed.
Joe Doughty walked rapidly on in the direction from whence the footsteps proceeded.
In a moment or so he came up with his master, who, hastening to the spot where his son lay in his last sleep, said—