d Jacob Baines--I say, Phineas--but thee
know'st nothing."

He tried to dress, and to drag on his heavy shoes; but fell back, sick
with exhaustion and pain. I made him lie down again on the bed.

"Phineas, lad," said he, brokenly, "thy old father is getting as
helpless as thee."

So we kept watch together, all the night through; sometimes dozing,
sometimes waking up at some slight noise below, or at the flicker of
the long-wicked candle, which fear converted into the glare of some
incendiary fire--doubtless our own home. Now and then I heard my
father mutter something about "the lad being safe." I said nothing. I
only prayed.

Thus the night wore away.

CHAPTER VIII

After Midnight--I know not how long, for I lost count of the hours by
the Abbey chimes, and our light had gone out--after midnight I heard by
my father's breathing that he was asleep. I was thankful to see it for
his sake, and also for another reason.

I could not sleep--all my faculties were preternaturally alive; my weak
body and timid mind became strong and active, able to compass anything.
For that one night, at least, I felt myself a man.

My father was a very sound sleeper. I knew nothing would disturb him
till daylight; therefore my divided duty was at an end. I left him,
and crept down-stairs into Sally Watkins' kitchen. It was silent, only
the faithful warder, Jem, dozed over the dull fire. I touched him on
the shoulder--at which he collared me and nearly knocked me down.

"Beg pardon, Mr. Phineas--hope I didn't hurt 'ee, sir?" cried he, all
but whimpering; for Jem, a big lad of fifteen, was the most
tender-hearted fellow imaginable. "I thought it were some of them folk
that Mr. Halifax ha' gone among."

"Where is Mr. Halifax?"

"Doan't know, sir--wish I did! wouldn't be long a finding out,
though--on'y he says: 'Jem, you stop 'ere wi' they'" (pointing his
thumb up the staircase). "So, Master Phineas, I stop."

And Jem settled himself with a doggedly obedient, but most dissatisfied
air down by the fire-place. It was evident nothing would move him
thence: so he was as safe a guard over my poor old father's slumber as
the mastiff in the tan-yard, who was as brave as a lion and as docile
as a child. My last lingering hesitation ended.

"Jem, lend me your coat and hat--I'm going out into the town."

Jem was so astonished, that he stood with open mouth while I took the
said garments from him, and unbolted the door. A