ancholy lowing of the Bell Rock; swinging over a space of waters it fell across fields, unutterably, abominably sad.
And in the boy there instantly leapt to life his soul. Maimed and bruised and stunned it had been—now alive, tearing him, bringing on to his bending shoulders an awful tide of knowledge: “Everything is gone—your wife, your boy, your friend, your work. . . . We have won, Peter, we have won. The House is waiting for you. . . .”
And above those dreadful voices the thundering echo, indifferent to his agonies, despising his frailties, flinging him, sea-wreck of the most miserable, to any insignificant end. . . .
Peter suddenly stood up, rocking on his box. He seized the whip from the driver's hands. He lashed the miserable horse.
“Get on, you devil, get on—leave this noise behind you—get out of it, get out of it—”
The cab rocked and tossed, Mr. Jackson caught the boy about the shoulders, held him down. The horse, tired and weary, paid no heed to anything that might be happening but stumbled on.
“Good Lord, sir,” Mr. Jackson cried, “you might have had us over—What's it all about, sir?”
But Peter now was huddled down with his coat about his ears and did not move again.
“Catchin' the whip like that—might 'ave 'ad us right into the 'edge,” muttered Mr. Jackson, wishing his journey well over.
As they turned the corner the lights of Treliss burst into view.
