"Oh, Peter!" he whispered, "speak! speak!"
"Not here, George," I answered; "it would be of no avail—besides, I can say nothing to clear myself."
"Nothin', Peter?"
"Nothing, George. This man was shot and killed in the Hollow—I found him lying dead—I found the empty pistol, and the Postilion, yonder, found me standing over the body. That is all I have to tell."
"Peter," said he, speaking hurriedly beneath his breath,
"Oh, Peter!—let's run for it—'twould be main easy for the likes o' you an' me—"
"No, George," I answered; "it would be worse than useless. But one thing I do ask of you—you who know me so much better than most—and it is, that you will bid me good-by, and—take my hand once more, George here before all these eyes that look upon me as a murderer, and—"
Before I had finished he had my hand in both of his—nay, had thrown one great arm protectingly about me.
"Why, Peter—" he began, in a strangely cracked voice, "oh! man as I love!—never think as I'd believe their lies, an'—Peter—such fighters as you an' me! a match for double their number—let's make a bolt for it—ecod! I want to hit somebody. Never doubt me, Peter—your friend—an' they'd go over like skittles—like skittles, Peter—"
The crowd, which had swelled momentarily, surged, opened, and a man on horseback pushed his way towards me, a man in some disorder of dress, as though he had clothed himself in a hurry.