“Where’s your friend?” Austin began.

“Gone!” was the answer, sounding cavernous from behind hair and fingers.  An explanation presently followed, that a summons had come for him in the morning from Mr. Thompson; and that Mr. Ripton had departed against his will.

In fact, Ripton had protested that he would defy his parent and remain by his friend in the hour of adversity and at the post of danger.  Sir Austin signified his opinion that a boy should obey his parent, by giving orders to Benson for Ripton’s box to be packed and ready before noon; and Ripton’s alacrity in taking the baronet’s view of filial duty was as little feigned as his offer to Richard to throw filial duty to the winds.  He rejoiced that the Fates had agreed to remove him from the very hot neighbourhood of Lobourne, while he grieved, like an honest lad, to see his comrade left to face calamity alone.  The boys parted amicably, as they could hardly fail to do, when Ripton had sworn fealty to the Feverals with a warmth that made him declare himself bond, and due to appear at any stated hour and at any stated place to fight all the farmers in England, on a mandate from the heir of the house.

“So you’re left alone,” said Austin, contemplating the boy’s shapely head.  “I’m glad of it.  We never know what’s in us till we stand by ourselves.”

There appeared to be no answer forthcoming.  Vanity, however, replied at last, “He wasn’t much support.”

“Remember his good points now he’s gone, Ricky.”

“Oh! he was staunch,” the boy grumbled.

“And a staunch friend is not always to be found.  Now, have you tried your own way of rectifying this business, Ricky?”

“I have done everything.”

“And failed!”

There was a pause, and then the deep-toned evasion—­

“Tom Bakewell’s a coward!”

“I suppose, poor fellow,” said Austin, in his kind way, “he doesn’t want to get into a deeper mess.  I don’t think he’s a coward.”

“He is a coward,” cried Richard.  “Do you think if I had a file I would stay in prison?  I’d be out the first night!  And he might have had the rope, too—­a rope thick enough for a couple of men his size and weight.  Ripton and I and Ned Markham swung on it for an hour, and it didn’t give way.  He’s a coward, and deserves his fate.  I’ve no compassion for a coward.”

“Nor I much,” said Austin.

Richard had raised his head in the heat of his denunciation of poor Tom.  He would have hidden it had he known the thought in Austin’s clear eyes while he faced them.

“I never met a coward myself,” Austin continued.  “I have heard of one or two.  One let an innocent man die for him.”

“How base!” exclaimed the boy.

“Yes, it was bad,” Austin acquiesced.

“Bad!” Richard scorned the poor contempt.  “How I would have spurned him!  He was a coward!”

“I believe he pleaded the feelings of his family in his excuse, and tried every means to get the man off.  I have read also in the confessions of a celebrated philosopher, that in his youth he committed some act of pilfering, and accused a young servant-girl of his own theft, who was condemned and dismissed for it, pardoning her guilty accuser.”