“Oh! Father, help me!” he murmured, as he stooped to drink. On rising, he continued to mutter to himself, “If only a tithe of my ordinary strength were left, or if I had one good meal and a short rest, I could be there in three hours; but—”
Whatever Fred’s fears were, he did not express them. He arose and recommenced his swinging trot with something like the pertinacity of a bloodhound on the scent. Perhaps he was thinking of his previous conversation with Tom Brixton about being guided by God in all circumstances, for the only remark that escaped him afterwards was, “It is my duty to act and leave results to Him.”
Towards the afternoon of that day Paul Bevan was busy mending a small cart in front of his hut, when he observed a man to stagger out of the wood as if he had been drunk, and approach the place where his plank-bridge usually spanned the brook. It was drawn back, however, at the time, and lay on the fortress side, for Paul had been rendered somewhat cautious by the recent assault on his premises.
“Hallo, Betty!” he cried.
“Yes, father,” replied a sweet musical voice, the owner of which issued from the doorway with her pretty arms covered with flour and her face flushed from the exertion of making bread.
“Are the guns loaded, lass?”
“Yes, father,” replied Betty, turning her eyes in the direction towards which Paul gazed. “But I see only one man,” she added.
“Ay, an’ a drunk man too, who couldn’t make much of a fight if he wanted to. But lass, the drunk man may have any number of men at his back, both drunk and sober, so it’s well to be ready. Just fetch the revolvers an’ have ’em handy while I go down to meet him.”
“Father, it seems to me I should know that figure. Why, it’s—no, surely it cannot be young Mister Westly!”
“No doubt of it, girl. Your eyes are better than mine, but I see him clearer as he comes on. Young Westly—drunk—ha! ha!—as a hatter! I’ll go help him over.”