anner and custom of the Doones.

However, although I loved the poor child, I could not help feeling very
uneasy about the escape of his father, the savage and brutal Carver.
This man was left to roam the country, homeless, foodless, and
desperate, with his giant strength, and great skill in arms, and the
whole world to be revenged upon. For his escape the miners, as I shall
show, were answerable; but of the Counsellor's safe departure the burden
lay on myself alone. And inasmuch as there are people who consider
themselves ill-used, unless one tells them everything, straitened though
I am for space, I will glance at this transaction.

After the desperate charge of young Doones had been met by us, and
broken, and just as Poor Kit Badcock died in the arms of the dead
Charley, I happened to descry a patch of white on the grass of the
meadow, like the head of a sheep after washing-day. Observing with
some curiosity how carefully this white thing moved along the bars of
darkness betwixt the panels of firelight, I ran up to intercept it,
before it reached the little postern which we used to call Gwenny's
door. Perceiving me, the white thing stopped, and was for making back
again; but I ran up at full speed; and lo, it was the flowing silvery
hair of that sage the Counsellor, who was scuttling away upon all fours;
but now rose and confronted me.

'John,' he said, 'Sir John, you will not play falsely with your ancient
friend, among these violent fellows, I look to you to protect me, John.'

'Honoured sir, you are right,' I replied; 'but surely that posture was
unworthy of yourself, and your many resources. It is my intention to let
you go free.'

'I knew it. I could have sworn to it. You are a noble fellow, John. I
said so, from the very first; you are a noble fellow, and an ornament to
any rank.'

'But upon two conditions,' I added, gently taking him by the arm; for
instead of displaying any desire to commune with my nobility, he was
edging away toward the postern; 'the first is that you tell me truly
(for now it can matter to none of you) who it was that slew my father.'

'I will tell you truly and frankly, John; however painful to me to
confess it. It was my son, Carver.'

'I thought as much, or I felt as much all along,' I answered; 'but the
fault was none of yours, sir; for you were not even present.'

'If I had been there, it would not have happened. I am always opposed
to violence. Therefore, let me haste away;