From thence, no matter how dark it is--and it will be
pitch-dark, I reckon--I can make Bergen Wood. No power on earth shall
stop me. If you told the warder yonder of my plan this moment, I should
still escape--in another and more certain fashion." To look at him and
read the resolute despair in his white face was to have no doubt of
that.
"What must be must be," sighed the old man. "But for _my_ sake, lad--for
mine, who love you as a father loves his own son--be patient till
to-morrow. This is my last day at Lingmoor. To-morrow I shall be free.
I'll come at night to the wall of the west yard, and throw a rope over
the north corner, close by the spout you mention. It shall be made fast
on my side, and if you do but lay hold of it, the rest is easy. Your
scheme, as it now stands, is hopeless. No squirrel could climb that
spout, far less a man reduced as you are;" and he glanced significantly
at Richard's shrunken limbs.
"You are the best of friends, Balfour--indeed, the only man that ever
_was_ my friend." He stopped, as if overcome by an emotion that was so
strange to him. "At midnight, then, to-morrow, I shall begin my work;
and in an hour from that time, if all goes well, I shall be at the spot
appointed. If I fail, you will remember Wheal Danes?"
"Yes, yes; but you will not fail.
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