Glancing apprehensively about, my uncle gasped in a hoarse undertone, "He has killed Jed Matthews."
As people were appearing now on all sides and running to fight the fire, Uncle Seth and I tried our best to lead Gleazen into a by-path and so home by a back way; but with drunken obstinacy he refused to yield an inch. "No, no," he roared, "I'm going to walk home past all the people. I'm not afraid of them. If they say aught to me, I'll show 'em."
So back we marched, supporting between us, hatless but with the diamonds still flashing on his finger and in his stock, that maudlin wretch, Cornelius Gleazen. I felt my own face redden as the curious turned to stare at us, and for Uncle Seth it was a sad and bitter experience; but we pushed on as fast as we could go, driven always by fear of what would follow when the people should learn the whole story of the brawl in the burning barn.
Back into the village we came, now loitering for a moment in the deeper shadows to avoid observation, now pushing at top speed across a lighter open space, always dragging Cornelius Gleazen between us, and so up to the open door of the tavern.
"Now," murmured Uncle Seth, "heaven send us help! Neil, Neil—Neil, I say!"
"Well?"
"We must get your chests and run. Your money, your papers—are they packed?"
"Money? What money?"
"Your fortune! You can never come back here. Sober up, Neil, sober up! You killed Jed Matthews."
"Served him right. Despicable cur, villain, scoundrel! I'll show them."