"You see that man!" he said, in a voice surcharged with emotion. "He was my friend. I trusted him. He and I hev worked together this many year, fair and foul, winter and summer. And now I know him for what he is, a spy, an informer, that takes money for betrayin' his true mates. Ay, and when things came to nought, he said 'twas my own son that split on us. Look 'ee see! He carr's his wages wi' un, afeard o' the face of an honest man. Worm that he is, let him crawl his way to everlastin' bonfire; but no price o' blood shall he take along, nor no one else shall touch it for evermore."
He stooped, wrenched the bags from the rope, which snapped in his mighty hands like thread, and, lifting each high above his head, hurled it far out into the sea. Then, turning on his heel, he strode away, and was swallowed up in the black night.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH
Peace and Goodwill
"A merry Christmas!" cried Dick, going into his parents' bedroom early in the morning.
"Thank'ee, my boy," said the Squire. "'Twill be the last Christmas we shall spend within these walls, so we will be as merry as we can.... Bless my life! Who is that singing?"
Through the open door came the sound of a clear young voice:
"I saw three ships come sailin' in
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
I saw three ships come sailin' in
On Christmas Day in the mornin'."
"'Tis Susan, sir, no doubt," replied Dick.
"Dear me, I had forgotten the maid. Well, 'tis a sweet voice. She is merry enough, poor soul."