“Marster,” he said, “you’ll be a friend to me, won’t you? I’ve gone through a good deal to git away, Marster. I have, indeed, and I’ve got so fur now, you won’t send me back. Oh, Marster, don’t send me back!” He tried to kneel to him on the pavement. The tears sprang to Harrington’s eyes, and conquering his disgust, he strode forward, caught the foul form, and raised it to its feet. The fugitive shrank a little at his touch, and stood trembling. “You poor fellow,” sorrowfully said Harrington, “don’t be afraid of me. I won’t harm you. No, I won’t send you back. And if you’ll trust in me, you shall be safe and no one shall lay a hand upon you. But it’s not safe for you to be out here in the street. Come with me, and I’ll give you a place to sleep, and food to eat, and take care of you.” The fugitive hesitated a moment, still trembling. “Marster, I’ll trust in you,” he said at length. “I’ll trust in you, Marster, and I’ll go along with you, if you won’t send me back.” “I promise you, before God, that you shall be safe with me,” said Harrington, solemnly. “Come.” He grasped, as he spoke, the thin arm of the trembling fugitive, and so assisting him, they moved slowly away together in silence, across Tremont street, and up the slope of Beacon street, with the light of the sinking moon in their faces. The fugitive was very weak, and tottered as he walked, despite the support the arm of his protector gave him. An overmastering pity, mixed with sombre sadness, filled the heart of Harrington as he felt the tottering motion, and heard the faint, stertorous panting of the miserable creature beside him. The slow pace at which they moved, combined with the nauseating odor of the rags which covered the fugitive, was an added trial to him, but he saw there was no help for it, and was patient. Somewhat apprehensive about meeting a watchman, and not liking to be interrogated with a companion whom it was prudence to hide as much as possible, Harrington took the least public route he could under the circumstances. As they turned into Somerset street, the fugitive faltered, stopped, and began to cough. A terrible cough, weak, hoarse, incessant, which shook his whole frame. It ended at last, and with a faint groan of exhaustion, he sat down on a doorstep, panting, and breathing hard. Shaken with pity, and doubly anxious lest the noise should attract some wandering night-policeman, Harrington stood over him, impatient to resume the journey. “Do you feel better now?” he said, gently. “We must get on as fast as we can.” “Oh, Marster,” gasped the fugitive, slowly and painfully rising. “I feel as if I couldn’t go no further. I’m so powerful weak, Marster.”