"Ah, Weevil! What news?" came the voice of Zuker.
Weevil! Paul crept again to the curtain, and peered through the side. It was the master, sure enough. He wore a cape, with the collar turned up and buttoned tight round the chin.
"Still the same," answered the master.
"No change?"
"No change to speak of. Sometimes he's a little better; then he goes back again, and is worse. Poor little chap! it makes my heart bleed to see him."
Then Paul knew they were speaking of Hibbert.
"Your heart! What of mine?" exclaimed the man fiercely. "You always speak as though you were the only one who cared for the boy. And a lot of good you've done for him. It was through you I had him trained as an English boy. His mother was English, said you. It was through you he went to Garside, because you could take greater care of him, said you. What care? Himmel, himmel! You let those imps of Satan torture him; through you he has been brought to the door of death."
"Cease, man—cease to torture me!" cried the master.
Paul listened in wonder, not unmixed with awe. He had heard that note of anguish in the master's voice before—on that night when he had seen him by Hibbert's bed; but the face, with the light of the lamp flickering on it, might have been hewn from the limestone. It was as stern and rigid as Fate itself.
"I have no wish to torture you; but it sickens me to hear you speak about that boy as though it were no concern of mine—as though you were the only one who cared for him. I tell you again, I was a fool to let him go to Garside."