Sidney, footsore and querulous, began to weep, and declare that he could stir no further; and while Philip, whose iron frame defied fatigue, compassionately paused to rest his brother, a low roll of thunder broke upon the gloomy air. “There will be a storm,” said he, anxiously. “Come on—pray, Sidney, come on.”
“It is so cruel in you, brother Philip,” replied Sidney, sobbing. “I wish I had never—never gone with you.”
A flash of lightning, that illuminated the whole heavens, lingered round Sidney’s pale face as he spoke; and Philip threw himself instinctively on the child, as if to protect him even from the wrath of the unshelterable flame. Sidney, hushed and terrified, clung to his brother’s breast; after a pause, he silently consented to resume their journey. But now the storm came nearer and nearer to the wanderers. The darkness grew rapidly more intense, save when the lightning lit up heaven and earth alike with intolerable lustre. And when at length the rain began to fall in merciless and drenching torrents, even Philip’s brave heart failed him. How could he ask Sidney to proceed, when they could scarcely see an inch before them?—all that could now be done was to gain the high-road, and hope for some passing conveyance. With fits and starts, and by the glare of the lightning, they obtained their object; and stood at last on the great broad thoroughfare, along which, since the day when the Roman carved it from the waste, Misery hath plodded, and Luxury rolled, their common way.
Philip had stripped handkerchief, coat, vest, all to shelter Sidney; and he felt a kind of strange pleasure through the dark, even to hear Sidney’s voice wail and moan. But that voice grew more languid and faint—it ceased—Sidney’s weight hung heavy—heavier on the fostering arm.
“For Heaven’s sake, speak!—speak, Sidney!—only one word—I will carry you in my arms!”
“I think I am dying,” replied Sidney, in a low murmur; “I am so tired and worn out I can go no further—I must lie here.” And he sank at once upon the reeking grass beside the road. At this time the rain gradually relaxed, the clouds broke away—a grey light succeeded to the darkness—the lightning was more distant; and the thunder rolled onward in its awful path. Kneeling on the ground, Philip supported his brother in his arms, and cast his pleading eyes upward to the softening terrors of the sky. A star, a solitary star—broke out for one moment, as if to smile comfort upon him, and then vanished. But lo! in the distance there suddenly gleamed a red, steady light, like that in some solitary window; it was no will-o’-the-wisp, it was too stationary—human shelter was then nearer than he had thought for. He pointed to the light, and whispered, “Rouse yourself, one struggle more—it cannot be far off.”
“It is impossible—I cannot stir,” answered Sidney: and a sudden flash of lightning showed his countenance, ghastly, as if with the damps of Death. What could the brother do?—stay there, and see the boy perish before his eyes? leave him on the road and fly to the friendly light? The last plan was the sole one left, yet he shrank from it in greater terror than the first. Was that a step that he heard across the road? He held his breath to listen—a form became dimly visible—it approached.
Philip shouted aloud.
“What now?” answered the voice, and it seemed familiar to Morton’s ear. He sprang forward; and putting his face close to the wayfarer, thought to recognise the features of Captain de Burgh Smith. The Captain, whose eyes were yet more accustomed to the dark, made the first overture.
“Why, my lad, is it you then? ‘Gad, you froightened me!”