a clemmed to death, if th’ Union had na helped him in his pinch.  There he went, ossing to promise aught, and pledge himsel’ to aught—­to tell a’ he know’d on our proceedings, the good-for-nothing Judas!  But I’ll say this for Hamper, and thank him for it at my dying day, he drove Boucher away, and would na listen to him—­ne’er a word—­though folk standing by, says the traitor cried like a babby!’

‘Oh! how shocking! how pitiful!’ exclaimed Margaret.  ’Higgins, I don’t know you to-day.  Don’t you see how you’ve made Boucher what he is, by driving him into the Union against his will—­without his heart going with it.  You have made him what he is!’

Made him what he is!  What was he?

Gathering, gathering along the narrow street, came a hollow, measured sound; now forcing itself on their attention.  Many voices were hushed and low:  many steps were heard not moving onwards, at least not with any rapidity or steadiness of motion, but as if circling round one spot.  Yes, there was one distinct, slow tramp of feet, which made itself a clear path through the air, and reached their ears; the measured laboured walk of men carrying a heavy burden.  They were all drawn towards the house-door by some irresistible impulse; impelled thither—­not by a poor curiosity, but as if by some solemn blast.

Six men walked in the middle of the road, three of them being policemen.  They carried a door, taken off its hinges, upon their shoulders, on which lay some dead human creature; and from each side of the door there were constant droppings.  All the street turned out to see, and, seeing, to accompany the procession, each one questioning the bearers, who answered almost reluctantly at last, so often had they told the tale.

‘We found him i’ th’ brook in the field beyond there.’

‘Th’ brook!—­why there’s not water enough to drown him!’

’He was a determined chap.  He lay with his face downwards.  He was sick enough o’ living, choose what cause he had for it.’

Higgins crept up to Margaret’s side, and said in a weak piping kind of voice:  ’It’s not John Boucher?  He had na spunk enough.  Sure!  It’s not John Boucher!  Why, they are a’ looking this way!  Listen!  I’ve a singing in my head, and I cannot hear.’

They put the door down carefully upon the stones, and all might see the poor drowned wretch—­his glassy eyes, one half-open, staring right upwards to the sky.  Owing to the position in which he had been found lying, his face was swollen and discoloured besides, his skin was stained by the water in the brook, which had been used for dyeing purposes.  The fore part of his head was bald; but the hair grew thin and long behind, and every separate lock was a conduit for water.  Through all these disfigurements, Margaret recognised John Boucher.  It seemed to her so sacrilegious to be peering into that poor distorted, agonised face, that, by a flash of instinct, she went forwards and softly covered the dead man’s countenance with her handkerchief.  The eyes that saw her do this followed her, as she turned away from her pious office, and were thus led to the place where Nicholas Higgins stood, like one rooted to the spot.  The men spoke together, and then one of them came up to Higgins, who would have fain shrunk back into his house.