going on.
But I wasn't near enough to tell what it was. Of course I came at once
to see if there was any trouble, and to do what I could. Is anything
wrong with Ruth? My horse fell and lamed himself, or I should have been
here much sooner. Tell me instantly! What have you done with the child?
What have you allowed to happen to her? By God, if--"

He demanded this accounting in a tone of passionate fierceness such as
none of those present had ever heard in him, turning first upon William
Pressley and then upon Robert Knox. His face was white, and his eyes
were blazing, and they did not at once resume their natural look when he
had been assured of Ruth's safety. But he said nothing more, and only
Father Orin noted how altered and worn and old he looked, when he
entered the room and the brighter light fell upon him.

He came to the fireside and sat down with the light of a swinging lamp
falling full on his face. His clear blue eyes, growing quiet, now looked
straight into Father Orin's--which were openly searching and
suspicious--during the second telling of the story of the night. It was
not easy for suspicion to stand against such a gaze. The priest's
wavered in spite of its strength. No one could believe evil of Philip
Alston while looking in his noble, open face. He did not speak
immediately after the story was told. When he did, it was to say,
quietly and naturally, precisely what any right-minded man would have
said under the circumstances:--

"This young stranger is certainly a man of courage. He has protected the
attorney-general at the risk of his own life. In doing this, he has done
a great service for all of us--for the whole country. We must now do
what we can for him. Is he badly, hurt? Where is he? Who is with him?"

The priest saw that he flinched for the first time when told that the
wounded man had been taken to Ruth's room.

"That was wrong," said Philip Alston, with a subtle change in his tone.
"Ruth must have nothing further to do with this extraordinary and most
unfortunate affair. She has had far too much to do with it already. That
mooning, foolish boy must have led her into this romantic folly through
some girlish enthusiasm about Joe Daviess, the popular hero of romance.
It is plainly the boy's fault that she was induced to do so dangerous
and unheard-of a thing. She could never have thought of it herself. I
shall see that he keeps his place hereafter. We must look to it,
William," turning upo