The word made my father start; for in these times well we knew what poor folk meant by "a blaze."
"My house—my tan-yard—I must get up this instant—help me. He ought to come back—that lad Halifax. There's a score of my men at hand—Wilkes, and Johnson, and Jacob Baines—I say, Phineas—but thee know'st nothing."
He tried to dress, and to drag on his heavy shoes; but fell back, sick with exhaustion and pain. I made him lie down again on the bed.
"Phineas, lad," said he, brokenly, "thy old father is getting as helpless as thee."
So we kept watch together, all the night through; sometimes dozing, sometimes waking up at some slight noise below, or at the flicker of the long-wicked candle, which fear converted into the glare of some incendiary fire—doubtless our own home. Now and then I heard my father mutter something about "the lad being safe." I said nothing. I only prayed.
Thus the night wore away.
CHAPTER VIII
After Midnight—I know not how long, for I lost count of the hours by the Abbey chimes, and our light had gone out—after midnight I heard by my father's breathing that he was asleep. I was thankful to see it for his sake, and also for another reason.
I could not sleep—all my faculties were preternaturally alive; my weak body and timid mind became strong and active, able to compass anything. For that one night, at least, I felt myself a man.