Vane took the young Creole’s hand almost by force, and gave it a painful grip, releasing it at last for Distin to turn to the nearest tree, lay his arm upon the trunk, and then lean his forehead against it in silence.
Vane stood looking at him, hesitating as to what he should say or do. Then, with a satisfied nod to himself, he said, cheerily:
“I’m going down to the stream to have a wash. Come on soon.”
It was a bit of natural delicacy, and the sensitive lad, born in a tropic land, felt it as he stood there with his brain filled with bitterness and remorse, heaping self-reproaches upon himself, and more miserable than he had ever before been in his life.
“I do believe he’s crying,” thought Vane, as he hurried out of the woodland shade, and down to the water’s edge, where, kneeling down by a little crystal pool, he washed his stained and bleeding hands, and then began to bathe his face and temples.
“Not quite so hot as I was,” he muttered; “but, oh, what a mess I’m in! I shan’t be fit to show myself, and must stop out till it’s dark. What would poor aunt say if she saw me! Frighten her nearly into fits.”
He was scooping up the fresh, cool water, and holding it to his bruises, which pained him a good deal, but, in spite of all his sufferings, he burst into a hearty fit of laughter at last, and, as his eyes were closed, he did not notice that a shadow was cast over him, right on to the water.
It was Distin, for he had come quietly down the bank, and was standing just behind him.
“Are you laughing at me?” he said, bitterly.
“Eh? You there?” cried Vane, raising his head. “No, I was grinning at the way those two fellows scuttled off. They made sure they were going to be in the lock-up to-night.”