He stole out through the garden, skirted the
copse that bounded the farm inclosure, and ran for half a mile up the
lane until he felt that he was out of reach. Then, breathless with haste,
quivering with the shock of this sudden plunge into independence, he sat
down on the grassy bank to reflect.

What had he done? It was no light thing for a boy of his years, ignorant
of life and the world, to cut himself adrift from old ties and voyage
into the unknown. Had he been wise? He had no trade as a standby; his
whole endowment was his youth and his wits. Would they suffice? Diggle's
talk had opened up an immense prospect, full of color and mystery and
romance, chiming well with his daydreams. Was it possible that, sailing
to India, he might find some of his dreams come true?

Could he trust Diggle, a stranger, by his own admission an adventurer, a
man who had run through two fortunes already? He had no reason for
distrust; Diggle was well educated, a gentleman, frank, amiable. What
motive could he have for leading a boy astray?

Mingled with Desmond's Irish impulsiveness there was a strain of caution
derived from the stolid English yeomen, his forebears on the maternal
side. He felt the need, before crossing his Rubicon, of taking counsel
with someone older and wiser--with a tried friend. Sir Willoughby Stokes,
the squire, had always been kind to him. Would it not be well to put his
case to the squire and follow his advice? But he durst not venture to the
Hall yet. His brother might suspect that he had gone there and seize him,
or intercept him on the way. He would wait. It was the squire's custom to
spend a quiet hour in his own room long after the time when other folk in
that rural neighborhood were abed. Desmond sometimes sat with him there,
reading or playing chess. If he went up to the Hall at nine o'clock he
would be sure of a welcome.

The evening passed slowly for Desmond in his enforced idleness. At nine
o'clock, leaving his bundle in a hollow tree, he set off toward the Hall,
taking a short cut across the fields. It was a dark night, and he stopped
with a start as, on descending a stile overhung by a spreading sycamore,
he almost struck against a person who had just preceded him.

"Who's that?" he asked quickly, stepping back a little: it was unusual to
meet anyone in the fields at so late an hour.

"Be that you, Measter Desmond?"

"Oh, 'tis you, Dickon. What are you doing this way at such an hour? You
ough