“Gammon, George!  Not handsome?” said Mr. Bucket, tapping him on his broad breast again and shaking hands with him.  “I don’t say it wasn’t handsome in you to keep my man so close, do I?  Be equally good-tempered to me, old boy!  Old William Tell, Old Shaw, the Life Guardsman!  Why, he’s a model of the whole British army in himself, ladies and gentlemen.  I’d give a fifty-pun’ note to be such a figure of a man!”

The affair being brought to this head, Mr. George, after a little consideration, proposed to go in first to his comrade (as he called him), taking Miss Flite with him.  Mr. Bucket agreeing, they went away to the further end of the gallery, leaving us sitting and standing by a table covered with guns.  Mr. Bucket took this opportunity of entering into a little light conversation, asking me if I were afraid of fire-arms, as most young ladies were; asking Richard if he were a good shot; asking Phil Squod which he considered the best of those rifles and what it might be worth first-hand, telling him in return that it was a pity he ever gave way to his temper, for he was naturally so amiable that he might have been a young woman, and making himself generally agreeable.

After a time he followed us to the further end of the gallery, and Richard and I were going quietly away when Mr. George came after us.  He said that if we had no objection to see his comrade, he would take a visit from us very kindly.  The words had hardly passed his lips when the bell was rung and my guardian appeared, “on the chance,” he slightly observed, “of being able to do any little thing for a poor fellow involved in the same misfortune as himself.”  We all four went back together and went into the place where Gridley was.

It was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery with unpainted wood.  As the screening was not more than eight or ten feet high and only enclosed the sides, not the top, the rafters of the high gallery roof were overhead, and the skylight through which Mr. Bucket had looked down.  The sun was low—­near setting—­and its light came redly in above, without descending to the ground.  Upon a plain canvas-covered sofa lay the man from Shropshire, dressed much as we had seen him last, but so changed that at first I recognized no likeness in his colourless face to what I recollected.

He had been still writing in his hiding-place, and still dwelling on his grievances, hour after hour.  A table and some shelves were covered with manuscript papers and with worn pens and a medley of such tokens.  Touchingly and awfully drawn together, he and the little mad woman were side by side and, as it were, alone.  She sat on a chair holding his hand, and none of us went close to them.

His voice had faded, with the old expression of his face, with his strength, with his anger, with his resistance to the wrongs that had at last subdued him.  The faintest shadow of an object full of form and colour is such a picture of it as he was of the man from Shropshire whom we had spoken with before.