So they would go out, arm in arm; and while they made their progress up the Highway, the man would pour out his remorse, and tell the story of his weeks of horror.
Then, after a mile or so, he would halt.
“My son!”
“What is it, father?”
“I must stop here, son.”
“Why, father?”
“I must have something to drink.”
“No, father!”
“But, my boy, I can’t go on! I can’t walk! You don’t know what I’m suffering!”
“No, father!”