CHAPTER XXXII.
How we fought a most bloody battle with Simon, the constable, and others.
For some time we spoke never a word, Dawson and I,—he with his head lying on his arm, I seated in a chair with my hands hanging down by my side, quite stunned by the blow that had fallen upon us. At length, raising his head, his eyes puffed, and his face bedaubed with tears, he says:
"Han't you a word of comfort, Kit, for a broken-hearted man?"
I stammered a few words that had more sound than sense; but indeed I needed consolation myself, seeing my own responsibility for bringing this misfortune upon Moll, and being most heartily ashamed of my roguery now 'twas discovered.
"You don't think he'll be too hard on poor Moll, tell me that, Kit?"
"Aye, he'll forgive her," says I, "sooner than us, or we ourselves."
"And you don't think he'll be for ever a-casting it in her teeth that her father's a a drunken vagabond, eh?"
"Nay; I believe he is too good a man for that."
"Then," says he, standing up, "I'll go and tell him the whole story, and you shall come with me to bear me out."
"To-morrow will be time enough," says I, flinching from this office; "'tis late now."
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