‘If they dare to touch me,’ cried Nat, in an overwhelming frenzy, as he felt his arms grasped by the footman who remained, ‘I will never go back to my home; I will drown myself to-night.’ The words sounded in his ears with the ring of desperation, but he could see only a slight smile on the thin lips of the Squire. ‘Ah! drown yourself?’ Mr Mallory murmured languidly, ‘I do not think that a liar and a thief has spirit left for that.’ And then, as he saw that the footman had returned, he gave a sign to the butler to begin. It was over. The butler, who was a powerful man, had fulfilled his task with the most complete good-will, but it must be owned that Nat had not opposed to him the smallest resistance of movement or of sound. He stood now, still quivering with the pain of his punishment, and turned to the Squire such a pale face and such burning eyes that, although he was aware of the absurdity of the sensation, the Squire could not refrain from a thrill of uneasiness. Checking it, he raised his head, with a languid shrug of his shoulders, and told his servants to turn him out, and to close the house. The burning eyes of the boy rested still upon his face to the very last instant as he was dragged away. He was dragged from the room, and forced roughly through the passages, and thrust through the side-door, and out into the night. He could hear the sound of the bolts that were closed behind him: he was left to be in the darkness and alone. CHAPTER XXX BY THE RIVER IN THE NIGHT AND now let us attempt to realise his position--the position of Nat, alone, and in the night, condemned, chastised, his teeth ground in helpless fury, dismissed from his employment, and left henceforth to contempt. The first few instants were like delirium, he knew not what he did or what he meant to do, until his head struck against one of the shadowy trunks of the trees, and the pain of the blow restored him to himself. He was not quite certain that he had not tried to hurt himself, but it had been only a half-conscious action, at any rate, and he was conscious now. With his hands raised to his head to still the pain and throbbing, he leant against the tree in the darkness, and he thought. ‘He says I am afraid,’ said Nat, ‘afraid--afraid.’ He did not think any longer. He gathered himself together, and found his way as he could amongst the trees--as he could, because the night was of more than usual darkness, and the singing in his brain still almost blinded him. But every moment seemed to restore his consciousness--a strange consciousness of a purpose that held him tenaciously. By the next night, or even before the morning came, they would not be able to say that he was afraid to act. They would be sorry, nothing else would make them sorry, but when he had done this they would be sorry then. And he would do it before more time was over; in one way or another, it would not be difficult.