'Here,' he said slowly, 'is a hiding-place fit for King Monmouth himself. A road unfrequented; the rustics all gone off to the wars--though now, I doubt not, having had their bellyfull of fighting. I suppose there were once cattle in the meadow, but they are either driven away by the clubmen for safety, or they have been stolen by the gipsies. No troopers will this day come prying along this road, or if they do search the wood, which is unlikely, they will not look in the linney; here can we be snug until we make up our minds what course is best.' 'Barnaby,' I said, 'take us to my father without more speech.' 'I have laid him,' he went on, 'upon the bare ground in the linney; but it is soft and dry lying, and the air is warm, though last night it rained and was cold. He looks happy, mother, and I doubt if he hath any feeling left in his limbs. Once I saw a man shot in the backbone and never move afterwards, but he lived for a bit. Here he is.' Alas! lying motionless on his back, his head bare, his white hair lying over his face, his eyes closed, his cheek white, and no sign of life in him except that his breast gently heaved, was my father. Then certain words which he had uttered came back to my memory. 'What matters the end,' were the words he said, 'if I have freedom of speech for a single day?' He had enjoyed that freedom for three weeks. My mother threw herself on her knees beside him and raised his head. 'Ah! my heart,' she cried, 'my dear heart, my husband, have they killed thee? Speak, my dear--speak if thou canst! Art thou in pain? Can we do aught to relieve thee? Oh! is this the end of all?' But my father made no reply. He opened his eyes, but they did not move: he looked straight before him, but he saw nothing. And this, until the end, was the burden of all. He spoke no word to show that he knew anyone, or that he was in pain, or that he desired anything. He neither ate nor drank, yet for many weeks longer he continued to live. CHAPTER XXIII. IN HIDING.