"You are hurt, young sir. Stoop your head and let me see."
"No," sighed Barnabas, "I'm well enough. Come, let me take you to
Clemency."
So, without more ado, they left that dreary place, and walked on together side by side and very silent, Barnabas with drooping head, and his companion with eyes uplifted and ever-moving lips.
Thus, in a while, they turned into the narrow court, and reaching the door of Nick the Cobbler, Barnabas knocked and, as they waited, he could see that his companion was trembling violently where he leaned beside him against the wall. Then the door was opened and Clemency appeared, her shapely figure outlined against the light behind her.
"Mr. Beverley," she exclaimed, "dear brother, is it you—"
"Yes, Clemency, and—and I have kept my promise, I have brought you—" But no need for words; Clemency had seen. "Father!" she cried, stretching out her arms, "oh, dear father!"
"Beatrix," said the preacher, his voice very broken, "oh, my child, —forgive me—!" But Clemency had caught him in her arms, had drawn him into the little shop, and, pillowing the silvery head upon her young bosom, folded it there, and so hung above him all sighs, and tears, and tender endearments.
Then Barnabas closed the door upon them and, sighing, went upon his way. He walked with lagging step and with gaze ever upon the ground, heedless alike of the wondering looks of those he passed, or of time, or of place, or of the voices that still wailed, and wrangled, and roared songs; conscious only of the pain in his head, the dull ache at his heart, and the ever-growing doubt and fear within him.