“My master--the sweep!” I cried.
“Certainly,” he replied stubbornly. “You were obviously the foundling
of Providence, which has elected this honest tradesman to be your
foster-father.”
“But, my mother?” I choked.
“It is her judgment,” he said, “to remain and mingle her weeping with
the ashes of this sacrifice, in the hospital of which her crimes have
made her an inmate.”
He had listened with his elbows, as I supposed. I recognised the
hopelessness of my task.
“Very well,” I said. “I daresay he has finished with the steward by
now. I will go and tell him what you say”--and I made for the chimney.
He was after me in a moment, at a gallop.
“Stop!” he cried. “What do you mean? That your master was one of this
rabble?”
“One? The worst of them all,” I answered. “It was he knocked down the
poor grey gentleman; and the last I heard of him was crying for you.”
He released me, to throw up his hands.
“The intolerance of these heretics!” he cried. “Stop! Don’t go. I
withdraw my pronouncement. You shall name your own penance.”