And feeling for his companions' hands he walked slowly from the churchyard, and across the village street, and up the lane to Burrough gates; while the crowd made way for him in solemn silence, as for an awful being, shut up alone with all his strength, valor, and fame, in the dark prison-house of his mysterious doom.
He seemed to know perfectly when they had reached the gates, opened the lock with his own hands, and went boldly forward along the gravel path, while Cary and Brimblecombe followed him trembling; for they expected some violent burst of emotion, either from him or his mother, and the two good fellows' tender hearts were fluttering like a girl's. Up to the door he went, as if he had seen it; felt for the entrance, stood therein, and called quietly, “Mother!”
In a moment his mother was on his bosom.
Neither spoke for awhile. She sobbing inwardly, with tearless eyes, he standing firm and cheerful, with his great arms clasped around her.
“Mother!” he said at last, “I am come home, you see, because I needs must come. Will you take me in, and look after this useless carcase? I shall not be so very troublesome, mother,—shall I?” and he looked down, and smiled upon her, and kissed her brow.
She answered not a word, but passed her arm gently round his waist, and led him in.
“Take care of your head, dear child, the doors are low.” And they went in together.
“Will! Jack!” called Amyas, turning round: but the two good fellows had walked briskly off.
“I'm glad we are away,” said Cary; “I should have made a baby of myself in another minute, watching that angel of a woman. How her face worked and how she kept it in!”
“Ah, well!” said Jack, “there goes a brave servant of the queen's cut off before his work was a quarter done. Heigho! I must home now, and see my old father, and then—”