"I have come back," said Waller. "Don't you know me? Why, you are not half awake yet. It will be dark soon, quite dark by the time we get home, and I am going to take you there."

The poor fellow pa.s.sed his hand two or three times across his forehead, as if to clear away some mist that hindered his perceptions.

"I say, you have had a splendid sleep," continued Waller. "Feel better now?"

"Sleep? Better? I don't know--don't know. Yes, I do. You came and brought me something to eat, and I have been to sleep and dreaming about--Oh!" he groaned, and, leaning forward and covering his face with his hands, he began to rock himself to and fro as if the mental agony from which he suffered was too hard to bear.

Waller looked on in silence for a few moments, before reaching forward and laying his hand upon the poor fellow's shoulder, when the touch acted like magic. His hands were caught in those of the fugitive, who rose painfully to his feet and spoke in a low, quick, hurried way.

"Yes," he said, "I am ready. Take me where you said; but," he added, glancing sharply round with a wild and fevered look in his eyes, "did the soldiers come, or did I dream it?"

"Dreamt it," said Waller emphatically.

"Ah!" was sighed. "Am I speaking properly? I--I don't quite know what I say. It's my head, I suppose--my head."

"You are not quite awake," said Waller encouragingly. "There, come down to the river and bathe your face. It's getting beautifully cool now; and then we will go gently home through the woods."

The poor fellow nodded quickly, obeying his companion to the letter, and seeming to trust himself entirely in his hands.

He seemed a little clearer after lying down and bathing his face; but as they walked slowly towards the Manor there were moments when he began to turn dizzy and reeled. But they reached the old Elizabethan house at last, quite in the dusk of evening, and, following out his settled plans, Waller led his companion in through the porch, across the hall, and upstairs, quite unseen, and rather breathless himself, while his companion seemed to have grown calmer. He unlocked the door of his den, threw it open, and closed it upon them with a sigh of relief, as he said,--

"There, sit down in that old chair--gently, for the bottom's broken.

This is my own room." Then, as the poor fellow sank back heavily in the very ancient chair, one that Waller had rescued from the lumber-room for his own particular use, he said, "I say: I won't be above a minute.

Don't you stir. I am going downstairs to get a light."

There was no reply, and, hurriedly descending, Waller fetched candle and stick, to return and find the "something" that he had brought in from the forest fast asleep once more.

"Now we shall be all right," he said. "I have got some supper for you.

What, asleep again?" he continued, more gently. "Well, you had better lie down. Here, I say, have a nap on the bed. Get up, and I'll help you. You had better undress."

The poor fellow grasped a portion of his wishes, and rose mechanically, reeled to the bed, and fell across it with his legs trailing upon the floor; but a few minutes after, with his young host's help, he was properly installed outside, dressed as he was, to sink at once into a deep, feverish sleep.

There was no suppering that night for the stranger, who slept on, muttering quickly at intervals, and was still sleeping when Waller stole up to his side again and again at intervals during what seemed to be an interminably long night; for though he pretended to go to bed, the boy could not sleep for more than an hour at a time, and when he did it was only to start up from some troubled dream connected with the incidents of the past day, for he was suffering badly from a new complaint-- fugitive on the brain.

CHAPTER NINE.

IN HIDING.

"What's he doing now?" said Martha. "Isn't going to be ill, is he?"

"Ill?" said Bella, contemptuously. "Not he!"

"But he's shut up in that attic, isn't he?"

"Yes, I told you so. Got another of those whim-whams in his head, and making a litter of some kind--skinning snakes or something that he's caught in the woods."

"Ugh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed cook. "If there's anything I can't abear it's them nasty scrawmy things. Did you tell him his dinner was ready?"

"Yes, and he nearly snapped my head off."

"What does he want to be skinning snakes for?" said the cook.

"Oh, I don't know--horrid things! He's got about half a dozen up there as he did last year; peels all the skins off, same as you do with the eels, and then turns them inside out again, fills them full of sand, and then twists them up and leaves them to dry."

"And what then?" said cook.

"Pours all the sand out again."

"But, I say, has he got them up there alive before he skins them?"

"I don't know as he has got any at all," said Bella shortly.

"Then why did you say he had?"

"I didn't. I only said I supposed he had, because he's always skinning something or another. He's got owls, and stoats, and all sorts of things that he gets in the forest, or that nasty fellow Bunny Wrigg brings for him."

"Oh!" said the cook. "Because I am not going to sleep upstairs if he's got live snakes to come crawling out of his room at all times in the night."

But though guilty of many such acts as the maid charged him with, Waller was not engaged with any taxidermic preparations, for his time during the past two days had been taken up in attendance upon the young fugitive.

For the first day the latter ate nothing, but pa.s.sed the full twenty-four hours in a feverish sleep. Then he seemed to throw off the fever, and, thanks to his host, who was eager to supply him, gradually transformed himself from the miserable, ragged, famished object into such a specimen of humanity as made Waller smile with satisfaction.

"Why," he said, "if the soldiers did come they wouldn't know you again."

"Again?" replied the lad. "They've never seen me."

"Well, I mean they wouldn't take you for a--for a--"

"There, say it," cried the lad sadly, "For a spy."

"I didn't mean spy," said Waller. "I meant fugitive."

"But they would. If I were questioned, what account could I give of myself? I have tried to do the work for which I came--for which we came--and I have failed. I am not going to tell a lie."

"No, of course not," said Waller hotly; "but you might hold your tongue, or tell any impudent beggar who dared to ask you questions, to mind his own business, if he didn't want to be kicked."

"Should you speak to the soldiers like that?" said Boyne, with a smile.

"Of course," cried Waller. "What do I care for the soldiers?"

"Ah!" sighed the lad. "But never mind that. I am so grateful to you for all you have done."

"Oh, nonsense!" cried Waller, flushing. "People are always hospitable in the country."

"So I have heard," said the other; "but, if I had been your own brother you could not have done more for me. You have saved my life."

"Oh, nonsense! I tell you. You make too much of it. I never had a brother, but fellows whom I have known at Winchester who have--they are not so very fond of doing things for one another. They generally like fighting and knocking one another about. I suppose they oughtn't to, but they quarrel more with their brothers than they do with anyone else.