At last, he got into a lane, but had not proceeded far when he was again alarmed by the sound of a horse's tread. He entered the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him. "Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. I can bear anything but suspense. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. Down under the incalculable selfishness of the penitent child there was the man's uneasy recollection of Judas. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. I know he is dead.
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