Thomas’s eyes were fixed upon his back.  “I didn’t know but you had got hurt or something,” said he.

Barney shook his head.  Thomas thought to himself that his back was certainly curved.  “I guess I’ll walk along with you a little way,” said he; “I’ve got something I wanted to say.  For God’s sake, Barney, you are sick!”

“No, I ain’t sick.”

“You are white as death.”

“There’s nothing the matter with me,” Barney half gasped.  He turned and walked on, and his back still bent like a bow to Thomas Payne’s eyes.

Thomas went on silently until they had passed a house just beyond.  Then he stopped again.  “Look here, Barney,” said he.

“Well,” said Barney.  He stopped, but he did not turn or face Thomas.  He only presented to him that curved, or semblance of a curved, back.

“I want to speak to you about Charlotte Barnard,” said Thomas Payne, abruptly.  Barney waited without a word.

“I suppose you’ll think it’s none of my business, and in one way it isn’t,” said Thomas, “but I am going to say it for her sake; I have made up my mind to.  It seems to me it’s time, if anybody cares anything about her.  What are you treating Charlotte Barnard so for, Barnabas Thayer?  It’s time you gave an account to somebody, and you can give it to me.”

Barney did not answer.

“Speak, you miserable coward!” shouted Thomas Payne, with a sudden threatening motion of his right arm.

Then Barney turned, and Thomas started back at the sight of his face.  “I can’t help it,” he said.

“Can’t help it, you—­”

“I can’t, before God, Thomas.”

“Why not?”

Barney raised his right hand and pointed past Thomas. 
“You—­met—­Royal Bennet just—­now,” he gasped, hoarsely.

Thomas nodded.

“You—­saw—­his—­back?”

“Yes.”

“Well, something like that ails me.  I—­can’t help it—­before God.”

“You don’t mean—­” Thomas said, and stopped, looking at Barney’s back.

“I mean that’s why I can’t—­help it.”

“Have you hurt your back?” Thomas asked, in a subdued tone.

“I’ve hurt my soul,” said Barney.  “It happened that Sunday night years ago.  I—­can’t get over it.  I am bent like his back.”

“I should think you’d better get over it, then, if that’s all,” Thomas Payne said, roughly.

“I—­can’t, any more than he can.”

“Do you mean your back’s hurt?  For God’s sake talk sense, Barney!” Thomas cried out, in bewilderment.

“It’s more than my back; it’s me.”

Thomas stared at Barney; a horror as of something uncanny and abnormal stole over him.  Was the man’s back curved, or had he by some subtle vision a perception of some terrible spiritual deformity, only symbolized by a curved spine?  In a minute he gave an impatient stamp, and tried to shake himself free from the vague pity and horror which the other had aroused.