“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.

“He is not guilty,” said Trove, rising quickly.

“I command ye, boy, be silent,” said Darrel, sternly.

“Have ye ever seen that hand,” he added, approaching the clerk, and pointing at a red mark as large as a dime on the back of his left hand.

“Yes,” the clerk answered with surprise, looking from hand to handkerchief.  Then, turning to the lawyer, he added, “This is the man.”

“Now,” Darrel continued, rolling up his sleeve, “I’ll show where thy bullet struck me in the left arm.  See, there it seared the flesh!”

They saw a star, quite an inch long, midway from hand to elbow,

“Do you mean to say that you are guilty of this crime?” the attorney asked.

“I am guilty and ready for punishment,” Darrel answered.  “Now, discharge the boy.”

“To-morrow,” said the attorney.  “That is for the court to do.”

Darrel went to Trove, who now sat weeping, his face upon his hands.

“Oh the great river o’ tears!” said Darrel, touching the boy’s head.  “Beyond it are the green shores of happiness, an’ I have crossed, an’ soon shalt thou.  Stop, boy, it ill becomes thee.  There is a dear, dear child whose heart is breaking.  Go an’ comfort her.”

Trove sat as if he had not heard.  The tinker went to his table and hurriedly wrote a line or two, folding and directing it.

“Go quickly, boy, an’ tell her, an’ then take this to Riley Brooke for me.”

The young man struggled a moment for self-mastery, rose with a sigh and a stern look, and put on his hat.

“It is about bail?” said he, in a whisper.

“Yes,” Darrel answered.

Trove hurried away.  A woman met him at the door, within which Polly boarded.

“Is she better?” Trove asked.