"Can you walk with my help? I have some brandy."
And taking from his pocket the tiny flask that a man with a weak heart is
apt to carry, he put it into a shaking hand. Brand drank it greedily.
They stumbled on together, down the narrow road, through the
streaming rain. It was a mile to the Whitebeck police station. Brand
gave a gasping, incoherent account of his doings during his ten days
of hiding--the various barns and outhouses he had sheltered in--the
food he had been able to steal--the narrow escapes he had run. And every
now and then, the frenzy of his hatred for the murdered man would break
in, and he would throw out hints of the various mad schemes he had
entertained at different times for the destruction of his enemy.
But presently he ceased to talk. It was evident that his weakness was
great; he clung heavily to Boden's arm.
They reached a point where a road branched to the left. A roar of furious
water greeted their ears.
"That's t' beck unner Wanthwaite Bridge," said Brand feebly. "Wait a bit,
sir."
He sank down on a stone by the roadside. Through the trees on the left
the foaming river glimmered in the departing light. Boden bent over him,
encouraging him with the promise of shelter and food, murmuring also of
God, the help of the sinner. Suddenly the lad leapt up.
"Aye! that'll end it!--an' a good job!"
He began to run up the left-hand road. Boden pursued him, struggled with
him, but in vain. Brand threw him off, reached the bridge, mounted the
parapet, and from there flung himself headlong into the spate rushing
furiously below.
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