As Dermoyne led Barnhurst forth into the open air, the false clergyman staggered like a drunken man. His tall and angular form shook like a reed; and Arthur, catching a glimpse of his countenance, saw that it was livid and distorted in every feature.
"Do with me what you will," he said in broken accents. "The worst has come.—I do not care! Come; at last, you shall go home with me. Home!"
He turned his steps up Broadway, leaning his weight on Arthur's arm as he staggered along.
Terrible as had been the crimes of the wretch, Arthur pitied him. For a moment, only; for the dying cry of Alice was in his ear.
"Your punishment begins," he whispered.
And thus, up Broadway, they resumed their march through the city.
They had not gone many paces from the church, when two forms sprang suddenly from the shadows of the scaffolding, both clad in dark overcoats, with caps drawn over their faces. They were the forms of those unknown persons who had followed Arthur and Barnhurst from the Battery over the city. One was lean, tall and sinewy in form; his quick, active, stealthy step, resembled the step of an Indian. The other was short and thick set, with broad chest and bow-legs.
"Did yer see der Red Book, Dirk?"
"O' coss I did; as he come out o' der church, his cloak opened, and I seed 'um under his arm. O' coss I did, Slung."
We cannot give any just idea of the peculiar patois of these delightful specimens of the civilized savages.