In Austin the Magian conflict would not have lasted long. He had but a blind notion of the fierceness with which it raged in young Richard. Happily for the boy, Austin was not a preacher. A single instance, a cant phrase, a fatherly manner, might have wrecked him, by arousing ancient or latent opposition. The born preacher we feel instinctively to be our foe. He may do some good to the wretches that have been struck down and lie gasping on the battlefield: he rouses antagonism in the strong. Richard's nature, left to itself, wanted little more than an indication of the proper track, and when he said, "Tell me what I can do, Austin?" he had fought the best half of the battle. His voice was subdued. Austin put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "You must go down to Farmer Blaize." "Well!" said Richard, sullenly divining the deed of penance. "You'll know what to say to him when you're there." The boy bit his lip and frowned. "Ask a favour of that big brute, Austin? I can't!" "Just tell him the whole case, and that you don't intend to stand by and let the poor fellow suffer without a friend to help him out of his scrape." "But, Austin," the boy pleaded, "I shall have to ask him to help off Tom Bakewell! How can I ask him, when I hate him?" Austin bade him go, and think nothing of the consequences till he got there. Richard groaned in soul. "You've no pride, Austin." "Perhaps not." "You don't know what it is to ask a favour of a brute you hate." Richard stuck to that view of the case, and stuck to it the faster the more imperatively the urgency of a movement dawned upon him. "Why," continued the boy, "I shall hardly be able to keep my fists off him!" "Surely you've punished him enough, boy?" said Austin. "He struck me!" Richard's lip quivered. "He dared not come at me with his hands. He struck me with a whip. He'll be telling everybody that he horsewhipped me, and that I went down and begged his pardon. Begged his pardon! A Feverel beg his pardon! Oh, if I had my will!" "The man earns his bread, Ricky. You poached on his grounds. He turned you off, and you fired his rick." "And I'll pay him for his loss. And I won't do any more." "Because you won't ask a favour of him?" "No! I will not ask a favour of him." Austin looked at the boy steadily. "You prefer to receive a favour from poor Tom Bakewell?" At Austin's enunciation of this obverse view of the matter Richard raised his brow. Dimly a new light broke in upon him. "Favour from Tom Bakewell, the ploughman? How do you mean, Austin?" "To save yourself an unpleasantness you permit a country lad to sacrifice himself for you? I confess I should not have so much pride." "Pride!" shouted Richard, stung by the taunt, and set his sight hard at the blue ridges of the hills.