We then both waded out of the water, he sat down on the side of the bridge, and I called to some men in a neighbouring field to come and help the postillion. I then returned to the gentleman, who was shivering as if in an ague fit. I asked if I should run and get him help, for he seemed very ill? 'You are a compassionate brave little fellow,' said he; and, looking more earnestly at me, exclaimed, 'I hope you are not hurt; how came you so bloody?' I knew not what to say, and returned no answer. 'You do not speak, child?' said he. 'Let me go and get you some help, Sir,' replied I—'Nay, nay, but are you hurt?'—'Not more than I was before this accident'—'Where do you come from?'—I was silent—'Who are you?'—'A poor friendless boy'—'Have you not a father?'—'No'—'A mother?'—'Yes: but she is forsaken by her father, and cannot get bread for herself?'—'How came you in this condition?'—'My master knocked me down and trod on me'—'Knocked you down and trod on you?'—'Yes: he was very cruel to me'—'Cruel indeed! Did he often treat you ill?'—'I do not know what other poor boys suffer, but he was so passionate that I was never safe.'—'And you have run away from him?'—'I was afraid he would murder me'—'Poor creature! Your eye is black, your forehead cut, and your hair quite clotted with blood'—'I have a bad gash in my head; but I can bear it. You shake worse and worse; let me go and get you some help; the village is not far off.'—'I feel I am not well'—'Shall I call one of the men?'—'Do, my good fellow.'
I ran, and the men came; they had set the carriage on its wheels, but it was entirely wet, and not fit to ride in. The gentleman therefore leaned on one of them, walked slowly back to the village, and desired me to follow. I gladly obeyed the order. He had pitied me, I had saved his life; if I could not make a friend I was in danger of starving, and I began to hope that I had now found one.
The best accommodations that the only inn in the village afforded were quickly procured. At first the gentleman ordered a post-chaise, to return home; but he soon felt himself so ill that he desired a bed might be got ready, and in the mean time sent to the nearest medical man, both for himself and to examine my wounds. What was still better, he ordered the people of the house to give me whatever I chose to eat and drink, and told them he had certainly been a dead man at that moment, if it had not been for me. But he would not forget me; he would take care of me as long as he lived.
This was joyful news indeed; or rather something much more exquisite than joyful. My heart melted when I heard him; I burst into tears, and replied, 'I would willingly die to serve him.' He then went to bed, and as evening came on the fever with which he was attacked increased. The anxiety I felt was excessive, and I was so earnest in my intreaties to sit and watch by him, that he was prevailed on to grant my request. From what I can now recollect, I imagine the apothecary gave him the common remedy, Dr. James's powders. When the medicine no longer operated he fell into a sound sleep, about eleven o'clock, and when he awoke the next morning found himself much refreshed and free from fever.
In the interim my wounds had been dressed, and to make the truth of my story evident, I took care to shew the bruises, and black and blue marks, with which my body was plentifully covered. Every favourable circumstance, every precaution, every effort was now indeed become necessary; for, late in the evening, I accidentally learned a secret of the most important and hope-inspiring, yet alarming nature. My all was at stake, my very existence seemed to depend on the person who it is true had promised to be my protector, but who, perhaps, when he should hear who I was, might again become my persecutor. The man to whom I had attached myself, whose life I had saved, and who had avowed a sense of the obligation, was no other than my grandfather!
The moment I heard this terrific intelligence, it chilled and animated me alternately; and, as soon as I could recollect myself, I determined not to quit his apartment all night. No persuasions could prevail on me; and when the chambermaid, who sat up with him, attempted to use force, I was so violent in my resistance that she desisted, and suffered me to remain in quiet.
When he awoke in the morning I trembled at the sound of his voice. I remembered the oath he had sworn, which my mother had often affirmed he would never break. He was totally changed, in my idea, from the gentleman whose life I had saved the day before. There had not indeed been any thing particularly winning in his aspect; but then there was a strong sense of danger, and of obligation to the instrument of his escape, who interested him something the more by being unfortunate. But an oath, solemnly taken by a man of so sacred a character? The thought was dreadful!
His curtains were drawn, and my trepidation increased. 'What, my good boy,' said he, 'are you up and here already?' 'He has never been in bed,' answered the chambermaid. 'We could not get him out of the room.' I replied in a faint voice, such as my fears inspired, 'I hoped he was better.' 'Yes, yes,' said he, 'I have had a good sleep, and feel as if I wanted my breakfast; go, my girl, and let it be got ready.'
The chambermaid obeyed his orders, and he continued—'Why did not you go to bed, child?'—'It did not become me to leave you'—'How so?' 'I hope I know my duty better'—'Your duty!'—'Yes, Sir'—'You seem to be an extraordinary boy; you act with great spirit, and talk with more good sense than I should expect from your poverty and education'—'So I ought to do, Sir; though I am desolate, I have been brought up better than most poor boys'—'Ay indeed!'
The apothecary entered, and, after having paid all necessary attention to his patient, informed him of the state in which he had found me; talked of my wounds and bruises, and the cruelty of the man that could inflict them; repeated several of the anecdotes of his tyranny, which I had told him, and concluded with remarks on my good fortune, in having found so kind a protector.