“And you’ll leave him to me?” said Joe, through his teeth.
“Yes, yes.”
“Joe, oh Joe, what are you going to do?” wailed his wife, coming panting up, having returned from the next town by the train by which Richard Glaire had meant to leave.
“Thou shalt see, moother,” said Joe quietly; “I’m going to punish the thief that stole our bairn.”
“But, Joe!” cried Mrs Banks piteously.
“Howd thee tongue, and see,” he cried sternly. “Richard Glaire, thou’rt a damned villain, but I can’t strike down the man my poor bairn has clasped in her poor weak arms. The way’s open to thee: go, and God’s mercy be held from thee if thou dost not make my poor child amends.”
Richard Glaire tried to speak, but his tongue refused its office, and he looked, shivering, from one to the other, as the stern old man stood pointing up towards the town, while the men who, but a short time before, were ready to tear and trample him under foot, stood back right and left, leaving an open lane for him to pass.
“Banks, God bless you!” whispered the vicar, catching the old man’s hand.
“And you too, parson,” said the other, simply. “Mebbe you’ll tak’ him home.”
The help was needed, for Richard Glaire tottered as his arm was drawn through the vicar’s; and then, followed by Tom Podmore and the big hammerman, they passed unmolested through the crowd, to find another further on, consisting of the women of the place, who had restrained the frantic mother and Eve Pelly from following; and the latter was kneeling now in the midst of a knot of women beside poor Mrs Glaire.