Once safe
hidden in Liverpool, no one will know where you are, and you may stay
quiet till your time comes for returning.”

“I will never come home again,” said Owen, doggedly. “The place is
accursed!”

“Hoot! be guided by me, man. Why, it was but an accident, after all! And we’ll land at the Holy Island, at the Point of Llyn; there is an old
cousin of mine, the parson, there—for the Pritchards have known better
days, Squire—and we’ll bury him there. It was but an accident, man. Hold up your head! You and Nest will come home yet and fill Bodowen with
children, and I’ll live to see it.”

“Never!” said Owen. “I am the last male of my race, and the son has
murdered his father!”

Nest came in laden and cloaked. Ellis was for hurrying them off. The
fire was extinguished, the door was locked. “Here, Nest, my darling, let me take your bundle while I guide you down
the steps.” But her husband bent his head, and spoke never a word. Nest
gave her father the bundle (already loaded with such things as he himself
had seen fit to take), but clasped another softly and tightly. “No one shall help me with this,” said she, in a low voice. Her father did not understand her; her husband did, and placed his strong
helping arm round her waist, and blessed her. “We will all go together, Nest,” said he. “But where?” and he looked up
at the storm-tossed clouds coming up from windward. “It is a dirty night,” said Ellis, turning his head round to speak to his
companions at last. “But never fear, we’ll weather it?” And he made for
the place where his vessel was moored. Then he stopped and thought a
moment. “Stay here!” said he, addressing his companions. “I may meet folk, and I
shall, maybe, have to hear and to speak. You wait here till I come back
for you.” So they sat down close together in a corner of the path. “Let me look at him, Nest!” said Owen. She took her little dead son out from under her shawl; they looked at his
waxen face long and tenderly; kissed it, and covered it up reverently and
softly. “Nest,” said Owen, at last, “I feel as though my father’s spirit had been
near us, and as if it had bent over our poor little one. A strange
chilly air met me as I stooped over him. I could fancy the spirit of our
pure, blameless child guiding my father’s safe over the paths of the sky
to the gates of heaven, and escaping those accursed dogs of hell that
were darting up from the north in pursuit of souls not five minutes
since. “Don’t talk so, Owen,” said Nest, curling up to him in the darkness of
the copse. “Who knows what may be listening?”

The pair were silent, in a kind of nameless terror, till they heard Ellis
Pritchard’s loud whisper. “Where are ye? Come along, soft and steady. There were folk about even now, and the Squire is missed, and madam in a
fright.”

They went swiftly down to the little harbour, and embarked on board
Ellis’s boat. The sea heaved and rocked even there; the torn clouds went
hurrying overhead in a wild tumultuous manner. They put out into the bay; still in silence, except when some word of
command was spoken by Ellis, who took the management of the vessel. They
made for the rocky shore, where Owen’s boat had been moored. It was not
there. It had broken loose and disappeared. Owen sat down and covered his face. This last event, so simple and
natural in itself, struck on his excited and superstitious mind in an
extraordinary manner. He had hoped for a certain reconciliation, so to
say, by laying his father and his child both in one grave. But now it
appeared to him as if there was to be no forgiveness; as if his father
revolted even in death against any such peaceful union. Ellis took a
practical view of the case. If the Squire’s body was found drifting
about in a boat known to belong to his son, it would create terrible
suspicion as to the manner of his death. At one time in the evening,
Ellis had thought of persuading Owen to let him bury the Squire in a
sailor’s grave; or, in other words, to sew him up in a spare sail, and
weighting it well, sink it for ever. He had not broached the subject,
from a certain fear of Owen’s passionate repugnance to the plan;
otherwise, if he had consented, they might have returned to Penmorfa, and
passively awaited the course of events, secure of Owen’s succession to
Bodowen, sooner or later; or if Owen was too much overwhelmed by what had
happened, Ellis would have advised him to go away for a short time, and
return when the buzz and the talk was over. Now it was different. It was absolutely necessary that they should leave
the country for a time. Through those stormy waters they must plough
their way that very night. Ellis had no fear—would have had no fear, at
any rate, with Owen as he had been a week, a day ago; but with Owen wild,
despairing, helpless, fate-pursued, what could he do? They sailed into the tossing darkness, and were never more seen of men. The house of Bodowen has sunk into damp, dark ruins; and a Saxon stranger