Richard, still perusing his flint, replied:  “We must manage to get a file in to him and a rope.  It can be done, I tell you.  I don’t care what I pay.  I don’t care what I do.  He must be got out.”

“Bother that old Blaize!” exclaimed Ripton, taking off his cap to wipe his frenzied forehead, and brought down his friend’s reproof.

“Never mind old Blaize now.  Talk about letting it out!  Look at you.  I’m ashamed of you.  You talk about Robin Hood and King Richard!  Why, you haven’t an atom of courage.  Why, you let it out every second of the day.  Whenever Rady begins speaking you start; I can see the perspiration rolling down you.  Are you afraid?—­And then you contradict yourself.  You never keep to one story.  Now, follow me.  We must risk everything to get him out.  Mind that!  And keep out of Adrian’s way as much as you can.  And keep to one story.”

With these sage directions the young leader marched his companion-culprit down to inspect the jail where Tom Bakewell lay groaning over the results of the super-mundane conflict, and the victim of it that he was.

In Lobourne Austin Wentworth had the reputation of the poor man’s friend; a title he earned more largely ere he went to the reward God alone can give to that supreme virtue.  Dame Bakewell, the mother of Tom, on hearing of her son’s arrest, had run to comfort him and render him what help she could; but this was only sighs and tears, and, oh deary me! which only perplexed poor Tom, who bade her leave an unlucky chap to his fate, and not make himself a thundering villain.  Whereat the dame begged him to take heart, and he should have a true comforter.  “And though it’s a gentleman that’s coming to you, Tom—­for he never refuses a poor body,” said Mrs. Bakewell, “it’s a true Christian, Tom! and the Lord knows if the sight of him mayn’t be the saving of you, for he’s light to look on, and a sermon to listen to, he is!”

Tom was not prepossessed by the prospect of a sermon, and looked a sullen dog enough when Austin entered his cell.  He was surprised at the end of half-an-hour to find himself engaged in man-to-man conversation with a gentleman and a Christian.  When Austin rose to go Tom begged permission to shake his hand.

“Take and tell young master up at the Abbey that I an’t the chap to peach.  He’ll know.  He’s a young gentleman as’ll make any man do as he wants ’em!  He’s a mortal wild young gentleman!  And I’m a Ass!  That’s where ’tis.  But I an’t a blackguard.  Tell him that, sir!”

This was how it came that Austin eyed young Richard seriously while he told the news at Raynham.  The boy was shy of Austin more than of Adrian.  Why, he did not know; but he made it a hard task for Austin to catch him alone, and turned sulky that instant.  Austin was not clever like Adrian:  he seldom divined other people’s ideas, and always went the direct road to his object; so instead of beating about and setting the boy on the alert at all points, crammed to the muzzle with lies, he just said, “Tom Bakewell told me to let you know he does not intend to peach on you,” and left him.