Darrel came and bent over him. Trove sat leaning, his hand on the
lounge, staring up at the tinker, his eyes dreadful and amazed.
"You, you will confess and go to prison!" he whispered.
"Fair soul!" said the old man, stroking the boy's head, "think not
o' me. Where I go there be flowers--lovely flowers! an' music, an'
the bards an' prophets. Though I go to punishment, still am I in
the Blessed Isles."
"You are doing it to save me," Trove whispered, taking the hand of
the old man. "I'll not permit it. I'll go to prison first."
"Am I so great a fool, think ye, as to claim an evil that is not
mine? An' would ye keep in me the burning o' remorse when I seek
to quench it? I warn thee, meddle not with the business o' me
soul. That is between the great God an' me."
Darrel stood to his full height, the red handkerchief covering his
head and falling on his back. He began with a tone of contempt
that changed quickly into one of sharp command. There was a little
silence and then a quick rap.
"Come in," Darrel shouted, as he let the handkerchief fall upon his
face again.
The district attorney, a constable, and the bank clerk, who had
been injured the night of the robbery, came in.
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