No one was on the lookout for the home-coming now. The boys might return, or they might not. To imaginations which had for two days endured such a prodigious strain, nothing could seem any longer improbable. But how desolate it seemed at the school! How funereal everything was, how quiet! There were no games going on; there was no sound of merry voices, no boisterous laughter, no fun of any kind; but there were the empty benches, the eager faces, the thin ranks, the whispered conversations, the unusual monotony of the usual tasks. It was a dreary time.
When the daily drill was over, at four o’clock, Harple went up to his room and threw himself into a chair by the window in gloomy despair. His surprise at the sudden departure of the rebellious company had given way to pain and consternation when he learned that Brightly was a member of it; and these feelings were in turn replaced by anxiety, alarm, deep grief, as the hours went by, and his friend and companion did not return.
There was no hope now in any direction. Brightly, whom he had loved; of whom he had been proud; for whom he had suffered; for whom, indeed, he would have laid down his sword and shoulder-straps any day, if that would have saved him,—Brightly was lost beyond hope of recovery, disgraced and ruined beyond possibility of reform. It was sad, it was very sad,—it was dreadful!
The lad started nervously to his feet, and began walking hastily up and down the narrow floor of his room. At last he dashed from his eyes the tears that had started there, and went about some tasks that he had set down for quiet accomplishment.
It was a dark, dull day, wet and cold and cheerless. The rain, which had fallen irregularly during the morning hours, had now set in again more steadily, and was driving against the windows of Harple’s room in rattling sheets.
About five o’clock Harple became aware that something unusual was going on in the hall below him. There were quick steps and excited voices. Outside some one was shouting and calling. He hurried to the window and looked out.
The fugitives were returning. They were coming up from the street leading to the river, and climbing the terrace, one by one, to the drill-ground.
They bore scarcely a resemblance to those boys of Riverpark who had started away in the morning of the day before, with shout and song, abounding in rebellious glee. Their torn clothes were drenched with the rain and splashed with red mud. Their soiled faces were haggard and weatherbeaten, and bore marks of great weariness and pain. Their movements were slow and halting; and some, unable to climb the bank alone, were being helped along by others.
As they crossed the drill-ground there were no demonstrations, either of delight or disapproval. Those who saw them come and were waiting to welcome them, were too greatly shocked at their wretched appearance to do more than look upon them with surprise and pity.