Well, as it turned out, this charcoal burner was just the twin of
the Southern "poor white" of the far future. The king presently
showed impatience, and said:
"An ye prattle here all the day, justice will miscarry. Think ye
the criminals will abide in their father's house? They are fleeing,
they are not waiting. You should look to it that a party of horse
be set upon their track."
The woman paled slightly, but quite perceptibly, and the man looked
flustered and irresolute. I said:
"Come, friend, I will walk a little way with you, and explain which
direction I think they would try to take. If they were merely
resisters of the gabelle or some kindred absurdity I would try
to protect them from capture; but when men murder a person of
high degree and likewise burn his house, that is another matter."
The last remark was for the king--to quiet him. On the road
the man pulled his resolution together, and began the march with
a steady gait, but there was no eagerness in it. By and by I said:
"What relation were these men to you--cousins?"
He turned as white as his layer of charcoal would let him, and
stopped, trembling.
"Ah, my God, how know ye that?"
"I didn't know it; it was a chance guess."
"Poor lads, they are lost. And good lads they were, too."
"Were you actually going yonder to tell on them?"
He didn't quite know how to take that; but he said, hesitatingly:
"Ye-s.
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