Then slowly, and seemingly in pain, the prostrate man arose.

And yet! Redmond mused, sorry a figure as he cut just then, minus
fur-cap and plastered with snow, alone with the shame which was his, he
had an air, a certain dignity of mien, this man, Yorke, which stamped him
far above the common run of men.

The junior constable, as he noted the dark hair, silvering and worn away
at the temples, adjudged him to be somewhere between thirty and
forty--thirty-five was his exact age as he ascertained later.

Now, with the air of a fallen angel, he stood there in the cold,
snow-dazzling moonlight; his face registering silent resignation as to
whatever else might befall him. The sergeant had stepped forward.
Redmond looked on, in dazed apprehension. A solemn hush had fallen upon
the strange scene, and stranger trio. Their figures flung weird,
fantastic shadows across the diamond-sparkling snow-crust. George
glanced at Slavin, and that individual's demeanor amazed him still
further. The big man's face was transformed. There seemed something
very terrible just then in the pathetic working of his rugged features,
as if he were striving to allay some powerful inward emotion. Then
huskily, but not unkindly--as perchance the father may have spoken to the
prodigal son--came his soft brogue:

"Get yu tu bed, Yorkey! get yu tu bed, man! . . . an' thry me no
more! . . . ."

Mutely, like a child, Yorke obeyed the order. Glancing at Redmond he
turned and walked unsteadily into the detachment.