It was at the late dawn of the following morning that Dan Mylrea escaped from his night-long burial in the shaft of the disused lead mine. On his way to Ballamona he went by the little shed where Mrs. Kerruish lived with her daughter Mally. The sound of his footstep on the path brought the old woman to the doorway.
"Asking pardon, sir," the old body said, "and which way may you be going?"
Dan answered that he was going to Ballamona.
"Not to the Deemster's? Yes? Och! no. Why, d'ye say? Well, my daughter was away at the Street last night—where she allis is o' nights, more's the pity, leaving me, a lone woman, to fret and fidget—and there in the house where they tell all newses, the guzzling craythurs, they were sayin' as maybe it was yourself as shouldn't trouble the Deemster for a bit of a spell longer."
Dan took no further heed of the old woman's warning than to thank her as he passed on. When he got to Ballamona the familiar place looked strange and empty. He knocked, but there was no answer. He called, but there was no reply. Presently a foot on the gravel woke the vacant stillness. It was Hommy-beg, and at sight of Dan he lifted both his hands.
Then, amid many solemn exclamations, slowly, disjointedly, explaining, excusing, Hommy told what had occurred. And no sooner had Dan realized the business that was afoot, and that the Deemster, with Jarvis Kerruish and Mona, were gone to Ramsey on a court of inquiry touching Ewan's death, than he straightway set his face in the same direction.
"The court begins its business at eight, you say? Well, good-by, Hommy, and God bless you!" he said, and turned sharply away. But he stopped suddenly, and came back the pace or two. "Wait, let us shake hands, old friend; we may not have another chance. Good-by."
In a moment Dan was going at a quick pace down the road.
It was a heavy morning. The mists were gliding slowly up the mountains in grim, hooded shapes, their long white skirts sweeping the meadows as they passed. Overhead the sky was dim and empty. Underfoot the roads were wet and thick. But Dan felt nothing of this wintry gloom. It did not touch his emancipated spirit. His face seemed to open as he walked, and his very stature to increase. He reflected that the lumbering coach which carried the Deemster and his daughter and bastard son must now be far on its way through the ruts of this rough turnpike that lay between Michael and Ramsey. And he pushed on with new vigor.
He passed few persons on the roads. The houses seemed to be deserted. Here or there a little brood of children played about a cottage door. He hailed them cheerily as he went by, and could not help observing that when the little ones recognized him they dropped their play and huddled together at the threshold like sheep affrighted.