“Tis a serviceable weapon,” replied the other.
“It’s worthless,” Hugh maintained doggedly. “Give it back to me.”
“But I’ve taken a fancy to it.”
“Keep it, then,” Hugh retorted, fiercely, so his voice might not break, and elbowing his way through the group of men walked off. He could smell the food cooking inside the tavern, and hunger gnawed him so savagely that even the thought that he had refused charity and had not deceived any one into buying a worthless pistol could not keep a lump from gathering in his throat. His step wavered and he had to halt an instant to lean against the gate-post: out beyond the street looked lonely and chill in the misty twilight. Just then he heard the click of spurs upon the stones of the courtyard, and some one took him by the shoulder. Even before he heard the drawl he knew it was the young gentleman. “Look you here, sir, I cannot take your pistol as a gift.”
More than one rough speech came to Hugh’s lips, but he did not utter a word, only shook off the grasp on his shoulder and without looking up made a step forward. Then his knees seemed to give way, the ground suddenly came nearer, and, pride, resentment, and all, he pitched down on the stones at the gentleman’s feet.
The other bent over him quickly, and this time Hugh had neither strength nor will to shake him off. “What’s wrong with you, lad?” There was almost no drawl in the speakers voice, “Hurt? Tired? Hungry?”
Hugh nodded dumbly.
“Well, well! That’s easier remedied than a broken leg. Up with you, now.” Hugh found himself upon his feet again, and, with the young man’s hand beneath his elbow, stumbled obediently back across the courtyard and through the little group about the door, who made way for them. Within they turned up a staircase, and now he heard the man beside him asking: “You’ll not refuse to take supper with me, perchance? When gentlemen meet on the road—”
“You’ve no need to make it easy unto me,” Hugh gulped out brokenly. “If some one did not help me I doubt if I could tramp many days more, and—I’d liefer take help from you.”
Indeed, utter weariness and hunger had for the moment made an end of Hugh’s dignity as effectually as if he had cast it quite away at the inn gate. He suffered the stranger to lead him into a room and seat him in a big chair by the fire, where he drank what was given him and swallowed down some mutton broth, sparingly, at first, as he was told. He troubled himself neither to think nor to speak, but he noted that the dark inn chamber seemed like home, the fire felt warm, and the candles twinkled dazzlingly. He found, too, that the brown-haired gentleman had a kind, elder-brotherly way with him, and that in private life he dispensed with his drawl, though his voice lost none of its pleasant tone.