Howlie’s eyes spoke again.
“I shall,” said Llewellyn. “Father, you can spare me.”
“Yes, yes. It isn’t that. But where are you to live, I should like to know? Lewis’ house must be full.”
“Anywhere. The stable,” replied his son, with decision.
“Nonsense, boy.”
“You had better get him away,” hazarded the doctor; “the sooner he’s in bed the better.”
With infinite gentleness, Llewellyn lifted Howlie and carried him to the gig.
“You must drive, father,” he remarked.
A gig is not a comfortable vehicle in which to carry an injured person, and Llewellyn, who had no support for his back, had great difficulty in keeping his charge from being shaken as they drove over the cobbled streets. Howlie lay still, but he moaned faintly now and then, and it was evident that he suffered much. Llewellyn’s arms ached, one side of his face was smeared with black, and his throat was sore from the smoke; a round blister just inside his wrist which he had not noticed before began to make itself felt, and the boy’s weight seemed to rest exactly upon the spot. He made landmarks as they went, and mentally checked off each as it passed. “The crooked elm,” “the turning to Brecon,” “the bridge,” “the laburnum tree,” and so on. His father talked continually about the folly of his staying at Crishowell to nurse Howlie, but he trusted to silence, that mighty weapon which so few of us are strong enough to wield. His mind was made up, and he knew that the Vicar would uphold him.
“It’s very tiresome of you, Llewellyn, going against me in this way. What am I to do, I should like to know? I haven’t any one to see to the little things I chance to forget. Harry’s at home, certainly, but what use is he?”