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lighted streets might be faintly traced； with here and there a
lighter spot； where lamps were clustered round a square or
market； or round some great building； after a time these grew
more distinct； and the lamps themselves were visible； slight yellow
specks； that seemed to be rapidly snuffed out； one by one； as
intervening obstacles hid them from the sight。 Then； sounds
arose—the striking of church clocks； the distant bark of dogs； the
hum of traffic in the streets； then outlines might be traced—tall
steeples looming in the air； and piles of unequal roofs oppressed
by chimneys； then； the noise swelled into a louder sound； and
forms grew more distinct and numerous still； and London—visible
in the darkness by its own faint light； and not by that of Heaven—
was at hand。
The locksmith； however； all unconscious of its near vicinity； still
jogged on； half sleeping and half waking； when a loud cry at no
great distance ahead； roused him with a start。
For a moment or two he looked about him like a man who had
been transported to some strange country in his sleep； but soon
recognising familiar objects； rubbed his eyes lazily and might have
relapsed again； but that the cry was repeated—not once or twice
or thrice； but many times； and each time； if possible； with
increased vehemence。 Thoroughly aroused； Gabriel； who was a
bold man and not easily daunted； made straight to the spot； urging
on his stout little horse as if for life or death。
The matter indeed looked sufficiently serious； for； coming to the
place whence the cries had proceeded； he descried the figure of a
man extended in an apparently lifeless state upon the pathway；
and； hovering round him； another person with a torch in his hand；
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which he waved in the air with a wild impatience； redoubling
meanwhile those cries for help which had brought the locksmith
to the spot。
‘What’s here to do？’ said the old man； alighting。 ‘How’s this—
what—Barnaby？’
The bearer of the torch shook his long loose hair back from his
eyes； and thrusting his face eagerly into that of the locksmith；
fixed upon him a look which told his history at once。
‘You know me； Barnaby？’ said Varden。
He nodded—not once or twice； but a score of times； and that
with a fantastic exaggeration which would have kept his head in
motion for an hour； but that the locksmith held up his finger； and
fixing his eye sternly upon him caused him to desist； then pointed
to the body with an inquiring look。
‘There’s blood upon him；’ said Barnaby with a shudder。 ‘It
makes me sick！’
‘How came it there？’ demanded Varden。
‘Steel； steel； steel！’ he replied fiercely； imitating with his hand
the thrust of a sword。
‘Is he robbed？’ said the locksmith。
Barnaby caught him by the arm； and nodded ‘Yes；’ then
pointed towards the city。
‘Oh！’ said the old man； bending over the body and looking
round as he spoke into Barnaby’s pale face； strangely lighted up
by something that was not intellect。 ‘The robber made off that way；
did he？ Well； well； never mind that just now。 Hold your torch this
way—a little farther off—so。 Now stand quiet； while I try to see
what harm is done。’
With these words； he applied himself to a closer examination of
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the prostrate form； while Barnaby； holding the torch as he had
been directed； looked on in silence； fascinated by interest or
curiosity； but repelled nevertheless by some strong and secret
horror which convulsed him in every nerve。
As he stood； at that moment； half shrinking back and half
bending forward； both his face and figure were full in the strong
glare of the link； and as distinctly revealed as though it had been
broad day。 He was about three…and…twenty years old； and though
rather spare； of a fair height and strong make。 His hair； of which
he had a great profusion； was red； and hanging in disorder about
his face and shoulders； gave to his restless looks an expression
quite unearthly—enhanced by the paleness of his complexion； and
the glassy lustre of his large protruding eyes。 Startling as his
aspect was； the features were good； and there was something even
plaintive in his wan and haggard aspect。 But； the absence of the
soul is far more terrible in a living man than in a dead one； and in
this unfortunate being its noblest powers were wanting。
His dress was of green； clumsily trimmed here and there—
apparently by his own hands—with gaudy lace； brightest where
the cloth was most worn and soiled； and poorest where it was at
the best。 A pair of tawdry ruffles dangled at his wrists； while his
throat was nearly bare。 He had ornamented his hat with a cluster
of peacock’s feathers； but they were limp and broken； and now
trailed negligently down his back。 Girt to his side was the steel hilt
of an old sword without blade or scabbard； and some parti…
coloured ends of ribands and poor glass toys completed the
ornamental portion of his attire。 The fluttered and confused
disposition of all the motley scraps that formed his dress； bespoke；
in a scarcely less degree than his eager and unsettled manner； the
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disorder of his mind； and by a grotesque contrast set off and
heightened the more impressive wildness of his face。
‘Barnaby；’ said the locksmith； after a hasty but careful
inspection； ‘this man is not dead； but he has a wound in his side；
and is in a fainting…fit。’
‘I know him； I know him！’ cried Barnaby； clapping his hands。
‘Know him？’ repeated the locksmith。
‘Hush！’ said Barnaby； laying his fingers upon his lips。 ‘He went
out to…day a wooing。 I wouldn’t for a light guinea that he should
never go a wooing again； for； if he did； some eyes would grow dim
that are now as bright as—see； when I talk of eyes； the stars come
out！ Whose eyes are they？ If they are angels’ eyes； why do they
look down here and see good men hurt； and only wink and sparkle
all the night？’
‘Now Heaven help this silly fellow；’ murmured the perplexed
locksmith； ‘can he know this gentleman？ His mother’s house is not
far off； I had better see if she can tell me who he is。 Barnaby； my
man； help me to put him in the chaise； and we’ll ride home
together。’
‘I can’t touch him！’ cried the idiot falling back； and shuddering
as with a strong spasm； he’s bloody！’
‘It’s in his nature； I know；’ muttered the locksmith； ‘it’s cruel to
ask him； but I must have help。 Barnaby—good Barnaby—dear
Barnaby—if you know this gentleman； for the sake of his life and
everybody’s life that loves him； help me to raise him and lay him
down。’
‘Cover him then； wrap him close—don’t let me see it—smell it—
hear the word。 Don’t speak the word—don’t！’
‘No； no； I’ll not。 There； you see he’s covered now。 Gently。 Well
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done； well done！’
They placed him in the carriage with great ease； for Barnaby
was strong and active； but all the time they were so occupied he
shivered from head to foot； and evidently experienced an ecstasy
of terror。