I will not, Sir. Who am I, Sir—and who are you, that I should suffer this of you?—I, a preacher of the gospel—you, an outcast and a fugitive—
Burroughs drew up with a smile. He knew the temper of the aged man, he foresaw that he should soon have the whole truth out of him, and he was prepared for whatever might be the issue.
—Yea, an outcast and a fugitive, pursued by the law it may be, while I speak; I, a man old enough to be your father—By what authority am I waylaid here, underneath my own roof—a roof that would have been a refuge for you, if you were not a—
A what Sir?
I have done—
So I perceive Matthew. I am satisfied now—I see the cause now of what I charged you with. I do not blame you—grievous though it be to the hope I had when I thought of you—my—my—brother. I feel for you—I pity you—I am sorry now for what I said—I pray you to forgive me—farewell—
Hey—what—
Farewell. You saw me, as you thought, pursued by the law—flying to the shadow of your roof as to a refuge, and so, you stood at the door and rebuked me, Matthew.
You wrong me—I love you—I respect you—there is no treachery here, and what I have said, I said rashly, and I know not why. Forgive me brother George ... forgive the old man, whose fear hath made him overlook what is due to them, whoever they are, that fly to his habitation for shelter.
I do forgive you ... my brother. Let me also be forgiven.