Those last words seemed torn from his breast in a low, hoarse whisper, as, breaking from the prostrate woman, he rushed away, right into the woods—the undergrowth bending and snapping as he passed on; till, with a groan of despair, he threw himself upon the earth, and lay there, in the deep shade, with his face buried in his hands.
With the Owner.
How long Richard lay there he did not know. To him, it seemed like a year of torment, during which, in a wildly fevered state, he went over, again and again, the narrative he had heard; tried to find a flaw in it, but in vain. It was too true—too circumstantial; and at last, in a dazed, heavy way, he raised his haggard face, with his hair roughened, and wrinkled brow, to see Humphrey sitting upon a fallen tree by his side.
“Ah, Humphrey,” he said, in a calm, sad voice. “How long have you been there?”
“Ever since, sir,” said the young man. “I followed you.”
“Then you heard?”
“Every word, sir. I couldn’t help it, though. I didn’t want to listen.”
Richard bowed his head, and remained with his chin upon his breast.
“I had left Polly, sir—God bless her! she’d made me very happy with what she said—and I was taking a short cut back to try and catch you, sir, when I came upon you sudden like.”