"Do not make yourself uneasy," replied his father. "There is no fear whatever of discovery. I am staying at an inn in one of the suburbs under an assumed name; besides, I am quite a stranger to this town. No one here is personally acquainted with me except ...."--a cloud came over his face--"except the Governor, and it is not likely I shall meet him. We have both of us good reasons to avoid each other."
"No matter; with every hour you spend here, you are incurring fresh risk to your freedom, your life. Did not you think of all this when you undertook the journey?"
"No," returned Brunnow, his voice faltering with deep emotion. "I heard that my only son lay at death's door, and I said to myself that, as a professional man, I might possibly find a way to save him. I had no time to think of anything else."
Max clasped his father's hand tightly, and tears glistened in his eyes, as he answered:
"I did not think you set so much value on my life, father. Forgive me if I have sometimes doubted your affection for me. I have not deserved that you should sacrifice yourself in this way. I have caused you worry and care enough with my obstinacy, which has long refused to bend to any authority."
His father stopped him.
"Let that be, Max," said he, with a wave of the hand. "We will forget all that has come between us hitherto. The terrible anxiety of the last four-and-twenty hours has taught me what it would be to lose the one source of happiness, the one hope which remains to me in life. Do not accuse yourself. I, too, have been unjust. I have never been willing to understand that your nature is so differently constituted to mine, you cannot think on all points as I do. But I trust this hour will have shown you what you are to your father, in spite of any little misunderstandings. Only get strong again, then all will be well."
He stooped, and pressed his lips to his son's forehead--a mark of tenderness which had long been out of use between them. Since his childhood. Max had received no such caress from his father; he responded to it with the heartiest warmth.
"You shall not have to complain of your stubborn son, the 'realist,' again," he said in a low voice. "I shall never forget, father, all that you have risked in my behalf. But now, promise me to leave again at once. You have convinced yourself that I am in no sort of danger. A real peril, however, exists for you so long as you are on this side the border. I entreat you once again, return as quickly as possible."
"I will start to-morrow morning," declared Brunnow; "but I shall come up again early to see you before I go. No remonstrances, Max. Do not distress yourself with needless anxiety. I tell you, discovery is out of the question. But now I will leave you. You are greatly in want of rest, and have had far more excitement than is good for you in your condition."