“Nonsense!” I said, buoyantly; “you yourself thought him dead. Carry us on to the mill and I’ll promise you a proper skinful of liquor.”
He was crabbed and undecided, but presently he went forward and whipped up his horses with a surly oath. As the wagon pitched, Modred opened his eyes, which he had shut, and looked up at me.
“Are you feeling better, old boy?” I said, tenderly.
“The pain isn’t so bad, but I’m tired to death,” said he.
“Rest, and don’t talk. You’ll be stronger in a bit.”
He closed his eyes again and I tried to shield him as much as I could from the jolting. I had already wrapped him up warm in some old sacks that were heaped in a corner of the wagon. So all the way home I held him, counting his every breath, loving him as I had never done before.
It was dark when we reached the mill and I laid him gently back and leaped down.
“Dad! Dad!” I shouted, running down the yard and into the house; but he was already standing at the head of the stairs, with a candle in his hand.
“Modred’s had an accident!” I cried, in a subdued voice—I could not keep the lie back. It seemed so dreadful at the outset to confess and stand aside condemned—while others helped. Jason and Zyp came out on the landing and my father ran down the stairs hurriedly.
“What’s that?” he said—“Modred!”