“Him!—who?—where?—when did you see him?—where is he?” cried Montague, looking around him.
“I saw him—but he is gone,” repeated Barton, faintly.
“But where—where? For God’s sake, speak,” urged Montague, vehemently.
“It is but this moment—here,” said he.
“But what did he look like?—what had he on?—what did he wear?—quick, quick,” urged his excited companion, ready to dart among the crowd, and collar the delinquent on the spot.
“He touched your arm—he spoke to you—he pointed to me. God be merciful to me, there is no escape!” said Barton, in the low, subdued tones of intense despair.
Montague had already bustled away in all the flurry of mingled hope and indignation; but though the singular personnel of the stranger who had accosted him was vividly and perfectly impressed upon his recollection, he failed to discover among the crowd even the slightest resemblance to him. After a fruitless search, in which he enlisted the services of several of the bystanders, who aided all the more zealously as they believed he had been robbed, he at length, out of breath and baffled, gave over the attempt.
“Ah, my friend, it won’t do,” said Barton, with the faint voice and bewildered, ghastly look of one who has been stunned by some mortal shock; “there is no use in contending with it; whatever it is, the dreadful association between me and it is now established; I shall never escape—never, never!”
“Nonsense, nonsense, my dear fellow; don’t talk so,” said Montague, with something at once of irritation and dismay; “you must not; never mind, I say—never mind, we’ll jockey the scoundrel yet.”
It was, however, but lost labour to endeavour henceforward to inspire Barton with one ray of hope; he became utterly desponding. This intangible and, as it seemed, utterly inadequate influence was fast destroying his energies of intellect, character, and health. His first object was now to return to Ireland, there, as he believed, and now almost hoped, speedily to die.