"In about vun minute they'll run up ag'in the Corp," said he, "and a precious ugly customer they'll find him, not to mention my specials—ve'll give 'em another two minutes." Saying which, Mr. Shrig reseated himself upon the dim step, watch in hand. "Sir," he continued, "I'm sorry about your 'at—sich a werry good 'at, too! But it 'ad to be yours or mine, and sir,—axing your pardon, but there's a good many 'ats to be 'ad in London jest as good as yourn, for them as can afford 'em, but theer ain't another castor like mine—no, not in the U-nited Kingdom."
"Very true," nodded Barnabas, "and no hat ever could have had a more—useful end, than mine."
"V'y yes, sir—better your castor than your sconce any day," said Mr. Shrig, "and now I think it's about time for us to—wenture forth. But, sir," he added impressively, "if the conclusion as I've drawed is correct, theer's safe to be shooting if you're recognized, so keep in the shadder o' the wall, d' ye see. Now, are ye ready?—keep behind me—so. Here they come, I think."
Somewhere along the dark River hoarse cries arose, and the confused patter of running feet that drew rapidly louder and more distinct. Nearer they came until Barnahas could hear voices that panted out fierce curses; also he heard Mr. Shrig's pistol click as it was cocked.
So, another minute dragged by and then, settling his broad-brimmed hat more firmly, Mr. Shrig sprang nimbly from his lurking-place and fronted the on-comers with levelled weapon:
"Stand!" he cried, "stand—in the King's name!"
By the feeble light of the moon, Barnabas made out divers figures who, checking their career, stood huddled together some yards away, some scowling at the threatening posture of Mr. Shrig, others glancing back over their shoulders towards the dimness behind, whence came a shrill whistle and the noise of pursuit.
"Ah, you may look!" cried Mr. Shrig, "but I've got ye, my lambs—all on ye! You, Bunty Fagan, and Dancing Jimmy, I know you, and you know me, so stand—all on ye. The first man as moves I'll shoot—stone dead, and v'en I says a thing I—"
A sudden, blinding flash, a deafening report, and, dropping his pistol, Mr. Shrig groaned and staggered up against the wall. But Barnabas was ready and, as their assailants rushed, met them with whirling stick.
It was desperate work, but Barnabas was in the mood for it, answering blow with blow, and shout with shout.
"Oh, Jarsper!" roared a distant voice, "we're coming. Hold 'em,
Jarsper!"
So Barnabas struck, and parried, and struck, now here, now there, advancing and retreating by turns, until the flailing stick splintered in his grasp, and he was hurled back to the wall and borne to his knees. Twice he struggled up, but was beaten down again, —down and down into a choking blackness that seemed full of griping hands and cruel, trampling feet.
Faint and sick, dazed with his hurts, Barnabas rose to his knees and
so, getting upon unsteady feet, sought to close with one who
threatened him with upraised bludgeon, grasped at an arm, missed,
felt a stunning shock,—staggered back and back with the sounds of
the struggle ever fainter to his failing senses, tripped, and falling
heavily, rolled over upon his back, and so lay still.
CHAPTER LX
WHICH TELLS OF A RECONCILIATION
"Oh, Lord God of the weary and heavy-hearted, have mercy upon me! Oh,
Father of the Sorrowful, suffer now that I find rest!"
Barnabas opened his eyes and stared up at a cloudless heaven where rode the moon, a silver sickle; and gazing thither, he remembered that some one had predicted a fine night later, and vaguely wondered who it might have been.
Not a sound reached him save the slumberous murmur that the River made lapping lazily against the piles, and Barnabas sighed and closed his eyes again.
But all at once, upon this quiet, came words spoken near by, in a voice low and broken, and the words were these:
"Oh, Lord of Pity, let now thy mercy lighten upon me, suffer that I come to Thee this hour, for in Thee is my trust. Take back my life, oh, Father, for, without hope, life is a weary burden, and Death, a boon. But if I needs must live on, give me some sign that I may know. Oh, Lord of Pity, hear me!"
The voice ceased and, once again, upon the hush stole the everlasting whisper of the River. Then, clear and sharp, there broke another sound, the oncoming tread of feet; soft, deliberate feet they were, which yet drew ever nearer and nearer while Barnabas, staring up dreamily at the moon, began to count their steps. Suddenly they stopped altogether, and Barnabas, lying there, waited for them to go on again; but in a while, as the silence remained unbroken, he sighed and turning his throbbing head saw a figure standing within a yard of him.
"Sir," said Mr. Chichester, coming nearer and smiling down at prostrate Barnabas, "this is most thoughtful—most kind of you. I have been hoping to meet you again, more especially since our last interview, and now, to find you awaiting me at such an hour, in such a place,—remote from all chances of disturbance, and—with the River so very convenient too! Indeed, you couldn't have chosen a fitter place, and I am duly grateful."
Saying which, Mr. Chichester seated himself upon the mouldering remains of an ancient wherry, and slipped one hand into the bosom of his coat.
"Sir," said he, leaning towards Barnabas, "you appear to be hurt, but you are not—dying, of course?"
"Dying!" repeated Barnabas, lifting a hand to his aching brow, "dying,—no."
"And yet, I fear you are," sighed Mr. Chichester, "yes, I think you will be most thoroughly dead before morning,—I do indeed." And he drew a pistol from his pocket, very much as though it were a snuff-box.
"But before we write 'Finis' to your very remarkable career," he went on, "I have a few,—a very few words to say. Sir, there have been many women in my life, yes, a great many, but only one I ever loved, and you, it seems must love her too. You have obtruded yourself wantonly in my concerns from the very first moment we met. I have always found you an obstacle, an obstruction. But latterly you have become a menace, threatening my very existence for, should you dispossess me of my heritage I starve, and, sir—I have no mind to starve. Thus, since it is to be your life or mine, I, very naturally, prefer that it shall be yours. Also you threatened to hound me from the clubs—well, sir, had I not had the good fortune to meet you tonight, I had planned to make you the scorn and laughing-stock of Town, and to drive you from London like the impostor you are. It was an excellent plan, and I am sorry to forego it, but necessity knows no law, and so to-night I mean to rid myself of the obstacle, and sweep it away altogether." As he ended, Mr. Chichester smiled, sighed, and cocked his pistol. But, even as it clicked, a figure rose up from behind the rotting wherry and, as Mr. Chichester leaned towards Barnabas, smiling still but with eyes of deadly menace, a hand, pale and claw-like in the half-light, fell and clenched itself upon his shoulder.
At the touch Mr. Chichester started and, uttering an exclamation, turned savagely; then Barnabas struggled to his knees, and pinning his wrist with one hand, twisted the pistol from his grasp with the other and, as Mr. Chichester sprang to his feet, faced him, still upon his knees, but with levelled weapon.
"Don't shoot!" cried a voice.
"Shoot?" repealed Barnabas, and got unsteadily upon his legs. "Shoot—no, my hands are best!" and, flinging the pistol far out into the River, he approached Mr. Chichester, staggering a little, but with fists clenched.
"Sir," cried the voice again, "oh, young sir, what would you do?"
"Kill him!" said Barnabas.
"No, no—leave him to God's justice, God will requite him—let him go."
"No!" said Barnabas, shaking his head. But, as he pressed forward intent on his purpose, restraining hands were upon his arm, and the voice pleaded in his ear:
"God is a just God, young sir—let the man go—leave him to the
Almighty,"
And the hands upon his arm shook him with passionate entreaty. Therefore Barnabas paused and, bowing his head, clasped his throbbing temples between his palms and so, stood a while. When he looked up again, Mr. Chichester was gone, and the Apostle of Peace stood before him, his silver hair shining, his pale face uplifted towards heaven.
"I owe you—my life!" said Barnabas.
