their fellows to death; but let one of us lesser men dare to lay hands upon their fat purses, full of other men’s gold, and we are branded as felons, and pay the ransom with our lives!  That is not justice.  That is not to be borne patiently.  I tell you, Tom, that I have seen enough of the injustice of the law to turn my heart to molten metal and my blood to gall.  We want fellows of your mould to wage the war and win the victory.  The day may come when you will win for yourself a great name, and shine forth upon the world admired, courted, feared—­even like Lord Claud!”

A thrill of gratified vanity ran through Tom’s frame.  He threw to the winds the last scruple of conscience.  He flung back his head and set his teeth.

“Ride on—­I follow!” he cried, in a strange, hoarse voice; “I follow unto the world’s end!”

So side by side the two men vanished into the deep gloom of the forest; and Captain Jack led his companion to one of those secret haunts of his own, where no pursuing foot had ever yet penetrated.  Tom drew a long breath as of relief, feeling that here at least he was safe.

And yet, when he sought to compose himself to rest after all the excitements of the past four-and-twenty hours, he found himself unable to sleep.  The face of his mother, loving, wistful, reproachful, seemed ever rising before him.  Was it not due to her that he should see her once again, even though he might be afterwards obliged to fly back to the forest?  Was there not a chance—­just a chance—­that his enemies might not follow him to his own home?—­might not even know where that home lay?  At least, might he not see whether he was followed before he abandoned the idea of seeing once more the mother and sister who loved him so well?

With the first light of dawn he woke up Captain Jack, and put the case to him; and the elder man sat cogitating deeply, as Tom moved about making ready the morning meal.

“Tom, lad,” he said, “you are safer here; but I understand your feelings.  A man’s first duty is to his mother if he have no wife.  And your mother is a good woman.  Squire Tufton would never have married her else.

“Listen to me, my lad.  I like you.  I would fain have you for a comrade and friend; and I fear that you will not long be left in peace at home.  But you shall do this thing.  You shall go to your mother—­”

“Ah, that is a good word!” cried Tom, now all eagerness.  “I shall at least see her once again!”

“Yes, you shall see her again; you shall make glad her heart.  But, Tom, tell her nothing of all this that has befallen you, nor of the peril in which you stand.  Let her never know, come what will, that you may be driven to take to the forest, for fear of the unjust rigour of the law and the machinations of unscrupulous foes.”

“I would gladly be spared paining her by such a tale,” said Tom quickly; “but how—­”

He paused, and Captain Jack took up the word.