THE SHADOW OF A CRIME

A CUMBRIAN ROMANCE

By Hall Caine

1885

Author of "The Manxman, " "The Deemster" etc. 

 "_Whom God's hand rests on, has God At his right hand_. "

NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS

1895

 TO

 MY ABLE FELLOW-JOURNALIST

 JOHN LOVELL

 WHO IN A DARKER HOUR OF LABOR AND MISGIVING CHEERED ME WITH AN ESTIMATE OF THIS NOVEL THAT THE PUBLIC HAS SINCE RATIFIED. 

CONTENTS

 Chapter

 I. The City of Wythburn

 II. The Crime in the Night

 III. In the Red Lion

 IV. The Outcast

 V. The Empty Saddle

 VI. The House on the Moss

 VII. Sim's Cave

 VIII. Robbie's Redemption

 IX. The Shadow of the Crime

 X. Mattha Branth'et "Flytes" the Parson

 XI. Liza's Wiles

 XII. The Flight on the Fells

 XIII. A 'Batable Point

 XIV. Until the Day Break

 XV. Ralph's Sacrifice

 XVI. At Sunrise on the Raise

 XVII. The Garths: Mother and Son

 XVIII. The Dawn of Love

 XIX. The Betrothal

 XX. "Fool, of Thyself Speak Well"

 XXI. Mrs. Garth at Shoulthwaite

 XXII. The Threatened Outlawry

 XXIII. She Never Told Her Love

 XXIV. Treason or Murder

 XXV. Liza's Device

 XXVI. "Fool, Do Not Flatter"

 XXVII. Ralph at Lancaster

 XXVIII. After Word Comes Weird

 XXIX. Robbie's Quest Begun

 XXX. A Race Against Life

 XXXI. Robbie, Speed On!

 XXXII. What the Snow Gave Up

 XXXIII. Sepulture at Last

 XXXIV. Fate that Impedes, Fall Back

 XXXV. Robbie's Quest Ended

 XXXVI. Rotha's Confession

 XXXVII. Which Indictment?

 XXXVIII. Peine Forte et Dure

 XXXIX. The Fiery Hand

 XL. Garth and the Quakers

 XLI. A Horse's Neigh

 XLII. The Fatal Witness

 XLIII. Love Known at Last

 XLIV. The Clew Discovered

 XLV. The Condemned in Doomsdale

 XLVI. The Skein Unravelled

 XLVII. The Black Camel at the Gate

 XLVIII. "Out, Out, Brief Candle"

 XLIX. Peace, Peace, and Rest

 L. Next Morning

 LI. Six Months After

PREFACE. 

The central incident of this novel is that most extraordinary of allpunishments known to English criminal law, the _peine forte et dure_. The story is not, however, in any sense historical. A sketchybackground of stirring history is introduced solely in order toheighten the personal danger of a brave man. The interest is domestic, and, perhaps, in some degree psychological. Around a pathetic piece ofold jurisprudence I have gathered a mass of Cumbrian folk-lore andfolk-talk with which I have been familiar from earliest youth. Tosmelt and mould the chaotic memories into an organism such as mayserve, among other uses, to give a view of Cumberland life in little, has been the work of one year. 

The story, which is now first presented as a whole, has already had acareer in the newspapers, and the interest it excited in thosequarters has come upon me as a surprise. I was hardly prepared to findthat my plain russet-coated dalesmen were in touch with popularsympathy; but they have made me many friends. To me they are verydear, for I have lived their life. It is with no affected regret thatI am now parting with these companions to make way for a group ofyounger comrades. 

There is one thing to say which will make it worth while to troublethe reader with this preface. A small portion of the dialogue iswritten in a much modified form of the Cumbrian dialect. There arefour variations of dialect in Cumberland, and perhaps the dialectspoken on the West Coast differs more from the dialect spoken in theThirlmere Valley than the latter differs from the dialect spoken inNorth Lancashire. The _patois_ problem is not the least serious of themany difficulties the novelist encounters. I have chosen to give abroad outline of Cumbrian dialect, such as bears no more exactrelation to the actual speech than a sketch bears to a finishedpicture. It is right as far as it goes. 

A word as to the background of history. I shall look for the sympathyof the artist and the forgiveness of the historian in making two orthree trifling legal anachronisms that do not interfere with theinterest of the narrative. The year of the story is given, but the aimhas been to reflect in these pages the black cloud of the whole periodof the Restoration as it hung over England's remotest solitudes. In myrude sketch of the beginnings of the Quaker movement I must disclaimany intention of depicting the precise manners or indicating the exactdoctrinal beliefs of the revivalists. If, however, I have describedthe Quakers as singing and praying with the fervor of the Methodists, it must not be forgotten that Quietism was no salient part of theQuakerism of Fox; and if I have hinted at Calvinism, it must beremembered that the "dividing of God's heritage" was one of the causesof the first schism in the Quaker Society. 

H. C. 

New Court, Lincoln's Inn. 

THE SHADOW OF A CRIME. 

CHAPTER I. THE CITY OF WYTHBURN. 

 Tar-ry woo', tar-ry woo', Tar-ry woo' is ill to spin: Card it weel, card it weel, Card it weel ere you begin. _Old Ballad. _

The city of Wythburn stood in a narrow valley at the foot ofLauvellen, and at the head of Bracken Water. It was a little butpopulous village, inhabited chiefly by sheep farmers, whose flocksgrazed on the neighboring hills. It contained rather less than ahundred houses, all deep thatched and thick walled. To the north laythe mere, a long and irregular water, which was belted across themiddle by an old Roman bridge of bowlders. A bare pack-horse roadwound its way on the west, and stretched out of sight to the north andto the south. On this road, about half a mile within the southernmostextremity of Bracken Water, two hillocks met, leaving a naturalopening between them and a path that went up to where the city stood. The dalesmen called the cleft between the hillocks the city gates; butwhy the gates and why the city none could rightly say. Folks hadalways given them these names. The wiser heads shook gravely as theytold you that city should be sarnty, meaning the house by thecauseway. The historians of the plain could say no more. 

They were rude sons and daughters of the hills who inhabited thismountain home two centuries ago. The country around them was alivewith ghostly legend. They had seen the lights dance across Deer GarthGhyll, and had heard the wail that came from Clark's Loup. They werenot above trembling at the mention of these mysteries when the moonwas flying across a darksome sky, when the wind moaned about thehouse, and they were gathered around the ingle nook. They had fewchannels of communication with the great world without. The pack-horsepedler was their swiftest newsman; the pedler on foot was their weeklybudget. Five miles along the pack-horse road to the north stood theirmarket town of Gaskarth, where they took their wool or the cloth theyhad woven from it. From the top of Lauvellen they could see the whitesails of the ships that floated down the broad Solway. These were allbut their only glimpses of the world beyond their mountains. It was amysterious and fearsome world. 

There was, however, one link that connected the people of Wythburnwith the world outside. To the north of the city and the mere therelived a family of sheep farmers who were known as the Rays ofShoulthwaite Moss. The family consisted of husband and wife and twosons. The head of the house, Angus Ray, came to the district early inlife from the extreme Cumbrian border. He was hardly less than a giantin stature. He had limbs of great length, and muscles like the gnarledheads of a beech. Upon settling at Wythburn, he speedily acquiredproperty of various kinds, and in the course of a few years he was thelargest owner of sheep on the country side. Certainly, fortune favoredAngus Ray, and not least noticeably when in due course he looked abouthim for a wife. 

Mary Ray did not seem to have many qualities in common with herhusband. She had neither the strength of limb nor the agile grace ofthe mountaineer. This was partly the result of the conditions underwhich her girlhood had been spent. She was the only child of adalesman, who had so far accumulated estate in land as to be known inthe vernacular as a statesman. Her mother had died at her birth, andbefore she had attained to young womanhood her father, who had marriedlate in life, was feeble and unfit for labor. His hand was toonervous, his eye too uncertain, his breath too short for the constantrisks of mountaineering; so he put away all further thought of addingstore to store, and settled himself peaceably in his cottage underCastenand, content with the occasional pleasures afforded by hisfiddle, an instrument upon which he had from his youth upward shownsome skill. In this quiet life his daughter was his sole companion. 

There was no sight in Wythburn more touching than to see this girlsolacing her father's declining years, meeting his wishes withanticipatory devices, pampering him in his whims, soothing him in theimaginary sorrows sometimes incident to age, even indulging him with asort of pathetic humor in his frequent hallucinations. To do this shehad to put by a good many felicities dear to her age and condition, but there was no apparent consciousness of self-sacrifice. She hadmany lovers, for in these early years she was beautiful; and she hadyet more suitors, for she was accounted rich. But neither flattery northe fervor of genuine passion seemed to touch her, and those whosought her under the transparent guise of seeking her father usuallywent away as they came. She had a smile and the cheeriest word ofwelcome for all alike, and so the young dalesmen who wooed her fromthe ignoble motive came to think her a little of a coquette, whilethose who wooed her from the purer impulse despaired of ruffling withthe gentlest gales of love the still atmosphere of her heart. 

One day suddenly, however, the old statesman died, and his fiddle washeard no more across the valley in the quiet of the evening, but wasleft untouched for the dust to gather on it where he himself had hungit on the nail in the kitchen under his hat. Then when life seemed tothe forlorn girl a wide blank, a world without a sun in it, Angus Raywent over for the first time as a suitor to the cottage underCastenand, and put his hand in hers and looked calmly into her eyes. He told her that a girl could not live long an unfriended life likehers--that she should not if she could; she could not if shewould--would she not come to him?

It was the force of the magnet to the steel. With swimming eyes shelooked up into his strong face, tender now with a tremor never beforeseen there; and as he drew her gently towards him her glistening tearsfell hot and fast over her brightening and now radiant face, and, asthough to hide them from him, she laid her head on his breast. Thiswas all the wooing of Angus Ray. 

They had two sons, and of these the younger more nearly resembled hismother. Willy Ray had not merely his mother's features; he had herdisposition also. He had the rounded neck and lissom limbs of a woman;he had a woman's complexion, and the light of a woman's look in hissoft blue eyes. When the years gave a thin curly beard to his cheekthey took nothing from its delicate comeliness. It was as if naturehad down to the last moment meant Willy for a girl. He had been an aptscholar at school, and was one of the few persons in Wythburn havingclaims to education. Willy's elder brother, Ralph, more nearlyresembled his father. He had his father's stature and strength oflimb, but some of his mother's qualities had also been inherited byhim. In manner he was neither so austere and taciturn as his father, nor so gentle and amiable as his mother. He was by no means a scholar, and only the strong hand of his father had kept him as a boy in fearof the penalties incurred by the truant. Courage and resolution werehis distinguishing characteristics. 

On one occasion, when rambling over the fells with a company ofschoolfellows, a poor blind lamb ran bleating past them, a black cloudof ravens, crows, and owl-eagles flying about it. The merciless birdshad fallen upon the innocent creature as it lay sleeping under theshadow of a tree, had picked at its eyes and fed on them, and now, asthe blood trickled in red beads down its nose, they croaked and criedand screamed to drive it to the edge of a precipice and then over toits death in the gulf beneath, there to feast on its carcass. It wasno easy thing to fend off the cruel birds when in sight of their prey, but, running and capturing the poor lamb, Ralph snatched it up in hisarms at the peril of his own eyes, and swung a staff about his head tobeat off the birds as they darted and plunged and shrieked about him. 

It was natural that a boy like this should develop into the finestshepherd on the hills. Ralph knew every path on the mountains, everyshelter the sheep sought from wind and rain, every haunt of the fox. At the shearing, at the washing, at the marking, his hand was amongthe best; and when the flocks had to be numbered as they rushed inthousands through the gate, he could count them, not by ones and twos, but by fours and sixes. At the shearing feasts he was not above thepleasures of the country dance, the Ledder-te-spetch, as it wascalled, with its one, two, three--heel and toe--cut and shuffle. Andhis strong voice, that was answered oftenest by the echo of themountain cavern, was sometimes heard to troll out a snatch of a songat the village inn. But Ralph, though having an inclination toconvivial pleasures, was naturally of a serious, even of a solemntemperament. He was a rude son of a rude country, --rude of hand, oftenrude of tongue, untutored in the graces that give beauty to life. 

By the time that Ralph had attained to the full maturity of hismanhood, the struggles of King and Parliament were at their height. The rumor of these struggles was long in reaching the city ofWythburn, and longer in being discussed and understood there; but, toeverybody's surprise, young Ralph Ray announced his intention offorthwith joining the Parliamentarian forces. The extraordinaryproposal seemed incredible; but Ralph's mind was made up. His fathersaid nothing about his son's intentions, good or bad. The lad was ofage; he might think for himself. In his secret heart Angus liked thelad's courage. Ralph was "nane o' yer feckless fowk. " Ralph's motherwas sorely troubled; but just as she had yielded to his father's willin the days that were long gone by, so she yielded now to his. Theintervening years had brought an added gentleness to her character;they had made mellower her dear face, now ruddy and round, thoughwrinkled. Folks said she had looked happier and happier, and hadtalked less and less, as the time wore on. It had become a saying inWythburn that the dame of Shoulthwaite Moss was never seen without asmile, and never heard to say more than "God bless you!" The tearsfilled her eyes when her son came to kiss her on the morning when heleft her home for the first time, but she wiped them away with herhousewife's apron, and dismissed him with her accustomed blessing. 

Ralph Ray joined Cromwell's army against the second Charles at Dunbar, in 1650. Between two and three years afterwards he returned toWythburn city and resumed his old life on the fells. There was littlemore for the train-bands to do. Charles had fled, peace was restored, the Long Parliament was dissolved, Cromwell was Lord Protector. Outwardly the young Roundhead was not altered by the campaign. He hadpassed through it unscathed. He was somewhat graver in manner; thereseemed to be a little less warmth and spontaneity in his greeting; hisvoice had lost one or two of its cheerier notes; his laughter was lesshearty and more easily controlled. Perhaps this only meant that theworld was doing its work with him. Otherwise he was the same man. 

When Ralph returned to Wythburn he brought with him a companion mucholder than himself, who forthwith became an inmate of his father'shome, taking part as a servant in the ordinary occupations of the malemembers of the household. This man had altogether a suspicious andsinister aspect which his manners did nothing to belie. His name wasJames Wilson, and he was undoubtedly a Scot, though he had neither thephysical nor the moral characteristics of his race. His eyes weresmall, quick, and watchful, beneath heavy and jagged brows. He wasslight of figure and low of stature, and limped on one leg. He spokein a thin voice, half laugh, half whimper, and hardly ever looked intothe face of the person with whom he was conversing. There was an airof mystery about him which the inmates of the house on the Moss didnothing to dissipate. Ralph offered no explanation to the gossips ofWythburn of Wilson's identity and belongings; indeed, as time wore on, it could be observed that he showed some uneasiness when questionedabout the man. 

At first Wilson contrived to ingratiate himself into a good deal offavor among the dalespeople. There was then an insinuating smoothnessin his speech, a flattering, almost fawning glibness of tongue, whichthe simple folks knew no art to withstand. He seemed abundantlygrateful for some unexplained benefits received from Ralph. "Atweel, "Wilson would say, with his eyes on the ground, --"atweel I lo'e thebraw chiel as 'twere my ain guid billie. "

Ralph paid no heed to the brotherly protestations of his admirer, andexchanged only such words with him as their occupations required. OldAngus, however, was not so passive an observer of his new andunlooked-for housemate. "He's a good for nought sort of a fellow, slenken frae place to place wi' nowt but a sark to his back, " Anguswould say to his wife. Mr. Wilson's physical imperfections were anoffence in the dalesman's eyes: "He's as widderful in his wizzent oldskin as his own grandfather. " Angus was not less severe on Wilson'ssly smoothness of manner. "Yon sneaking old knave, " he would say, "isas slape as an eel in the beck; he'd wammel himself into crookedestrabbit hole on the fell. " Probably Angus entertained some of theantipathy to Scotchmen which was peculiar to his age. "I'll swear he'sa taistrel, " he said one day; "I dare not trust him with a mess ofpoddish until I'd had the first sup. "

In spite of this determined disbelief on the part of the head of thefamily, old Wilson remained for a long time a member of the householdat Shoulthwaite Moss, following his occupations with constancy, andalways obsequious in the acknowledgment of his obligations. It wasobserved that he manifested a peculiar eagerness when through anystray channel intelligence was received in the valley of the sayingsand doings in the world outside. Nothing was thought of this until oneday the passing pedler brought the startling news that the LordProtector was dead. The family were at breakfast in the kitchen of theold house when this tardy representative of the herald Mercuryarrived, and, in reply to the customary inquiry as to the news hecarried, announced the aforesaid fact. Wilson was alive to itssignificance with a curious wakefulness. 

"It's braw tidings ye bring the day, man, " he stammered with evidentconcern, and with an effort to hide his nervousness. 

"Yes, the old man's dead, " said the pedler, with an air of consequencecommensurate with his message. "I reckon, " he added, "Oliver's sonRichard will be Protector now. "

"A sairy carle, that same Richard, " answered Wilson; "I wot th' youngCharles 'ul soon come by his ain, and then ilka ane amang us 'ul see abonnie war-day. We've playt at shinty lang eneugh. Braw news, man--braw news that the corbie's deid. "

Wilson had never before been heard to say so much or to speak sovehemently. He got up from the table in his nervousness, and walkedaimlessly across the floor. 

"Why are you poapan about, " asked Angus, in amazement; "snowkin like apig at a sow?"

At this the sinister light in Wilson's eyes that had been held incheck hitherto seemed at once to flash out, and he turned hotly uponhis master, as though to retort sneer for sneer. But, checkinghimself, he took up his bonnet and made for the door. 

"Don't look at me like that, " Angus called after him, "or, maybe I'llclash the door in thy face. "

Wilson had gone by this time, and turning to his sons, Anguscontinued, --

"Did you see how the waistrel snirpt up his nose when the pedler saidCromwell was dead?"

It was obvious that something more was soon to be made known relativeto their farm servant. The pedler had no difficulty in coming to theconclusion that Wilson was some secret spy, some disguised enemy ofthe Commonwealth, and perhaps some Fifth Monarchy man, and a rankPapist to boot. Mrs. Ray's serene face was unruffled; she was sure thepoor man meant no harm. Ralph was silent, as usual, but he lookedtroubled, and getting up from the table soon afterwards he followedthe man whom he had brought under his father's roof, and who seemedlikely to cause dissension there. 

Not long after this eventful morning, Ralph overheard his father andWilson in hot dispute at the other side of a hedge. He could learnnothing of a definite nature. Angus was at the full pitch ofindignation. Wilson, he said, had threatened him; or, at least, hisown flesh and blood. He had told the man never to come nearShoulthwaite Moss again. 

"An' he does, " said the dalesman, his eyes aflame, "I'll toitle himinto the beck till he's as wankle as a wet sack. "

He was not so old but that he could have kept his word. His greatframe seemed closer knit at sixty than it had been at thirty. Hisface, with its long, square, gray beard, looked severer than everunder his cloth hood. Wilson returned no more, and the promise of adrenching was never fulfilled. 

The ungainly little Scot did not leave the Wythburn district. Hepitched his tent with the village tailor in a little house atFornside, close by the Moss. The tailor himself, Simeon Stagg, waskept pitiably poor in that country, when one sack coat of homespuncloth lasted a shepherd half a lifetime. He would have lived asolitary as well as a miserable life but for his daughter Rotha, agirl of nineteen, who kept his little home together and shared hispoverty when she might have enjoyed the comforts of easier homeselsewhere. 

"Your father is nothing but an ache and a stound to you, lass, " Simwould say in a whimper. "It'll be well for you, Rotha, when you giveme my last top-sark and take me to the kirkyard yonder, " the littleman would snuffle audibly. 

"Hush, father, " the girl would say, putting the palm of her handplayfully over his mouth, "you'll be sonsie-looking yet. "

Sim was heavily in debt, and this preyed on his mind. He had alwaysbeen a grewsome body, sustaining none of the traditions of his craftfor perky gossip. Hence he was no favorite in Wythburn, where few ornone visited him. Latterly Sim's troubles seemed to drive him from hishome for long walks in the night. While the daylight lasted his workgave occupation to his mind, but when the darkness came on he had noescape from haunting thoughts, and roamed about the lanes in an effortto banish them. It was to this man's home that Wilson turned when hewas shut out of Shoulthwaite Moss. Naturally enough, the sinister Scotwas a welcome if not an agreeable guest when he came as lodger, withmoney to pay, where poverty itself seemed host. 

Old Wilson had not chosen the tailor's house as his home on account ofany comforts it might be expected to afford him. He had his ownreasons for not quitting Wythburn after he had received his veryunequivocal "sneck posset. " "Better a wee bush, " he would say, "thanna bield". Shelter certainly the tailor's home afforded him; and thatwas all that he required for the present. Wilson had not been long inthe tailor's cottage before Sim seemed to grow uneasy under a freshanxiety, of which his lodger was the subject. Wilson's manners hadobviously undergone a change. His early smoothness, his slaveringglibness, had disappeared. He was now as bitter of speech as he hadformerly been conciliatory. With Sim and his troubles, real andimaginary, he was not at all careful to exhibit sympathy. "Weel, weel, ye must lie heids and thraws wi' poverty, like Jock an' his mither";or, "If ye canna keep geese ye mun keep gezlins. "

Sim was in debt to his landlord, and over the idea of ejectment fromhis little dwelling the tailor would brood day and night. Folks saidhe was going crazed about it. None the less was Sim's distress aspoignant as if the grounds for it had been more real. "Haud thybletherin' gab, " Wilson said one day; "because ye have to be canniewi' the cream ye think ye must surely be clemm'd. " Salutary as some ofthe Scotsman's comments may have been, it was natural that the changein his manners should excite surprise among the dalespeople. The goodpeople expressed themselves as "fairly maizelt" by the transformation. What did it all mean? There was surely something behind it. 

The barbarity of Wilson's speech was especially malicious whendirected against the poor folks with whom he lived, and who, beingconscious of how essential he was to the stability of the household, were largely at his mercy. It happened on one occasion that whenWilson returned to the cottage after a day's absence, he found Sim'sdaughter weeping over the fire. 

"What's now?" he asked. "Have ye nothing in the kail?"

Rotha signified that his supper was ready. 

"Thou limmer, " said Wilson, in his thin shriek, "how long 'ul thy doollast? It's na mair to see a woman greet than to see a goose gangbarefit. "

Ralph Ray called at the tailor's cottage the morning after this, andfound Sim suffering under violent excitement, of which Wilson'sbehavior to Rotha had been the cause. The insults offered to himselfhe had taken with a wince, perhaps, but without a retort. Now that hisdaughter was made the subject of them, he was profoundly agitated. 

"There I sat, " he cried, as his breath came and went in gusts, --"thereI sat, a poor barrow-back't creature, and heard that old savvorlessloon spit his spite at my lass. I'm none of a brave man, Ralph: no, Imust be a coward, but I went nigh to snatching up yon flail of his andstriking him--aye, killing him!--but no, it must be that I'm acoward. "

Ralph quieted him as well as he could, telling him to leave this thingto him. Ralph was perhaps Sim's only friend. He would often turn inlike this at Sim's workroom as he passed up the fell in the morning. People said the tailor was indebted to Ralph for proofs of friendshipmore substantial than sympathy. And now, when Sim had the promise of astrong friend's shoulder to lean on, he was unmanned, and wept. Ralphwas not unmoved as he stood by the forlorn little man, and clasped hishands in his own and felt the warm tears fall over them. 

As the young dalesman was leaving the cottage that morning, heencountered in the porch the subject of the conversation, who wasentering in. Taking him firmly but quietly by the shoulder, he led himback a few paces. Sim had leapt up from his bench, and was peeringeagerly through the window. But Ralph did no violence to his lodger. He was saying something with marked emphasis, but the words escapedthe tailor's ears. Wilson was answering nothing. Loosing his hold ofhim, Ralph walked quietly away. Wilson entered the cottage with alivid face, and murmuring, as though to himself, --

"Aiblins we may be quits yet, my chiel'. A great stour has begoon, mybirkie. Your fire-flaucht e'e wull na fley me. Your Cromwell's gane, an' all traitors shall tryste wi' the hangman. "

It was clear that whatever the mystery pertaining to the Scotchman, Simeon Stagg seemed to possess some knowledge of it. Not that he everexplained anything. His anxiety to avoid all questions about hislodger was sufficiently obvious. Yet that he had somehow obtained somehint of a dark side to Wilson's character, every one felt satisfied. No other person seemed to know with certainty what were Wilson's meansof livelihood. The Scotchman was not employed by the farmers andshepherds around Wythburn, and he had neither land nor sheep of hisown. He would set out early and return late, usually walking in thedirection of Gaskarth. One day Wilson rose at daybreak, and putting athreshing-flail over his shoulder, said he would be away for a week. That week ensuing was a quiet one for the inmates of the cottage atFornside. 

Sim's daughter, Rotha, had about this time become a constant helper atShoulthwaite Moss, where, indeed, she was treated with the cordialityproper to a member of the household. Old Angus had but little sympathyto spare for the girl's father, but he liked Rotha's own cheerfulness, her winsomeness, and, not least, her usefulness. She could milk andchurn, and bake and brew. This was the sort of young woman that Angusliked best. "Rotha's a right heartsome lassie, " he said, as he heardher in the dairy singing while she worked. The dame of Shoulthwaiteloved every one, apparently, but there were special corners in herheart for her favorites, and Rotha was one of them. 

"Cannot that lass's father earn aught without keeping yon sulkingwaistrel about him?" asked the old dalesman one day. 

It was the first time he had spoken of Wilson since the threatenedducking. Being told of Wilson's violence to Rotha, he only said, "It'san old saying, 'A blate cat makes a proud mouse. '" Angus was neverheard to speak of Wilson again. 

Nature seemed to have meant Rotha for a blithe, bird-like soul, butthere were darker threads woven into the woof of her naturalbrightness. She was tall, slight of figure, with a little head ofalmost elfish beauty. At milking, at churning, at baking, her voicecould be heard, generally singing her favorite border song:--

 "Gae tak this bonnie neb o' mine, That pecks amang the corn, An' gi'e't to the Duke o' Hamilton To be a touting horn. "

"Robin Redbreast has a blithe interpreter, " said Willy Ray, as heleaned for a moment against the open door of the dairy in passing out. Rotha was there singing, while in a snow-white apron, and with armsbare above the elbows, she weighed the butter of the last churninginto pats, and marked each pat with a rude old mark. The girl droppedher head and blushed as Willy spoke. Of late she had grown unable tolook the young man in the face. Willy did not speak again. His facecolored, and he went away. Rotha's manner towards Ralph was different. He spoke to her but rarely, and when he did so she looked frankly intohis face. If she met him abroad, as she sometimes did when carryingwater from the well, he would lift her pails in his stronger handsover the stile, and at such times the girl thought his voice seemedsofter. 

"I am thinking, " said Mrs. Ray to her husband, as she was spinning inthe kitchen at Shoulthwaite Moss, --"I am thinking, " she said, stoppingthe wheel and running her fingers through the wool, "that Willy ispartial to the little tailor's winsome lass. "

"And what aboot Ralph?" asked Angus. 

CHAPTER II. THE CRIME IN THE NIGHT. 

On the evening of the day upon which old Wilson was expected back atFornside, Ralph Ray turned in at the tailor's cottage. Sim's distresswas, if possible, even greater than before. It seemed as if the gloomyforebodings of the villagers were actually about to be realized, andSim's mind was really giving way. His staring eyes, his unconscious, preoccupied manner as he tramped to and fro in his little work-room, sitting at intervals, rising again and resuming his perambulations, now gathering up his tools and now opening them out afresh, talkingmeantime in fitful outbursts, sometimes wholly irrelevantly andoccasionally with a startling pertinency, --all this, though no morethan an excess of his customary habit, seemed to denote a mindunstrung. The landlord had called that morning for his rent, which waslong in arrears. He must have it. Sim laughed when he told Ralph this, but it was a shocking laugh; there was no heart in it. Ralph wouldrather have heard him whimper and shuffle as he had done before. 

"You shall not be homeless, Sim, if the worst comes to the worst, " hesaid. 

"Homeless, not I!" and the little man laughed again. Ralph feltunease. This change was not for the better. Rotha had been sitting atthe window to catch the last glimmer of daylight as she spun. It wasdusk, but not yet too dark for Ralph to see the tears standing in hereyes. Presently she rose and went out of the room. 

"Never fear that I shall be clemm'd, " said Sim. "No, no, " he said, with a grin of satisfied assurance. 

"God forbid!" said Ralph, "but things should be better soon. This isthe back end, you know. "

"Aye, " answered the tailor, with a shrug that resembled a shiver. 

"And they say, " continued Ralph, "the back end is always the bareend. "

"And they say, too, " said Sim, "change is leetsome, if it's only outof bed into the beck!"

The tailor laughed loud, and then stopped himself with a suddennessquite startling. The jest sounded awful on his lips. "You say the backend's the bare end, " he said, coming up to where Ralph sat in pain andamazement; "mine's all bare end. It's nothing but 'bare end' for someof us. Yesterday morning was wet and cold--you know how cold it was. Well, Rotha had hardly gone out when a tap came to the door, and whatdo you think it was? A woman, a woman thin and blear-eyed. Some onemust have counted her face bonnie once. She was scarce older than myown lass, but she'd a poor weak barn at her breast and a wee lad thattrudged at her side. She was wet and cold, and asked for rest andshelter for herself and the children-rest and shelter, " repeated thetailor in a lower tone, as though muttering to himself, --"rest andshelter, and from me. "

"Well?" inquired Ralph, not noticing Sim's self-reference. 

"Well?" echoed Sim, as though Ralph should have divined the sequel. 

"Had the poor creature been turned out of her home?"

"That and worse, " said the little tailor, his frame quivering withemotion. "Do you know the king's come by his own again?" Sim wasspeaking in an accent of the bitterest mockery. 

"Worse luck, " said Ralph; "but what of that?"

"Why, " said Sim, almost screaming, "that every man in the land whofought for the Commonwealth eight years ago is like to be shot as atraitor. Didn't you know that, my lad?" And the little man put hishands with a feverish clutch on Ralph's shoulders, and looked into hisface. 

For an instant there was a tremor on the young dalesman's features, but it lasted only long enough for Sim to recognize it, and then theold firmness returned. 

"But what of the poor woman and her barns?" Ralph said, quietly. 

"Her husband, an old Roundhead, had fled from a warrant for hisarrest. She had been cast homeless into the road, she and all herhousehold; her aged mother had died of exposure the first bitternight, and now for two long weeks she had walked on and on--on andon--her children with her--on and on--living Heaven knows how!"

A light now seemed to Ralph to be cast on the great change in hisfriend; but was it indeed fear for his (Ralph's) well-being that hadgoaded poor Sim to a despair so near allied to madness?

"What about Wilson?" he asked, after a pause. 

The tailor started at the name. 

"I don't know--I don't know at all, " he answered, as though eager toassert the truth of a statement never called into dispute. 

"Does he intend to come back to Fornside to-night, Sim?"

"So he said. "

"What, think you, is his work at Gaskarth?"

"I don't know--I know nothing--at least--no, nothing. "

Ralph was sure now. Sim was too eager to disclaim all knowledge of hislodger's doings. He would not recognize the connection between theformer and present subjects of conversation. 

The night had gathered in, and the room was dark except for theglimmer of a little fire on the open hearth. The young dalesman lookedlong into it: his breast heaved with emotion, and for the first timein his manhood big tears stood in his eyes. It must be so; it must bethat this poor forlorn creature, who had passed through sufferings ofhis own, and borne them, was now shattered and undone at the prospectof disaster to his friend. Did he know more than he had said? It wasvain to ask. Would he--do anything? Ralph glanced at the little man:barrow-backed he was, as he had himself said. No, the idea seemedmonstrous. The young man rose to go; he could not speak, but he tookSim's hand in his and held it. Then he stooped and kissed him on thecheek. 

 * * * * *

Next morning, soon after daybreak, all Wythburn was astir. People werehurrying about from door to door and knocking up the few remainingsleepers. The voices of the men sounded hoarse in the mist of theearly morning; the women held their heads together and talked inwhispers. An hour or two later two or three horsemen drove up to thedoor of the village inn. There was a bustle within; groups of boyswere congregated outside. Something terrible had happened in thenight. What was it?

Willie Ray, who had left home at early dawn, came back to ShoulthwaiteMoss with flushed face and quick-coming breath. Ralph and his motherwere at breakfast. His father, who had been at market the precedingday, had not risen. 

"Dreadful, dreadful!" cried Willy. "Old Wilson is dead. Found dead inthe dike between Smeathwaite and Fornside. Murdered, no doubt, for hiswages; nothing left about him. "

"Heaven bless us!" cried Mrs. Ray, "to kill a poor man for his week'swage!" And she sank back into the chair from which she had risen inher amazement. 

"They've taken his body to the Red Lion, and the coroner is there fromGaskarth. "

Willy was trembling in every limb. 

Ralph rose as one stupefied. He said nothing, but taking down his hathe went out. Willy looked after him, and marked that he took the roadto Fornside. 

When he got there he found the little cottage besieged. Crowds ofwomen and boys stood round the porch and peered in at the window. Ralph pushed his way through them and into the house. In the kitchenwere the men from Gaskarth and many more. On a chair near the coldhearth, where no fire had been kindled since he last saw it, sat Simwith glassy eyes. His neck was bare and his clothes disordered. At hisback stood Rotha, with her arms thrown round her father's neck. Hislong, thin fingers were clutching her clasped hands as with a vise. 

"You must come with us, " said one of the strangers, addressing thetailor. He was justice and coroner of the district. 

Sim said nothing and did not stir. Then the young girl's voice brokethe dreadful silence. 

"Come, father; let us go. "

Sim rose at this, and walked like one in a dream. Ralph took his arm, and as the people crowded upon them, he pushed them aside, and theypassed out. 

The direction of the company through the gray mist of that morning wastowards the place where the body lay. Sim was to be accused of thecrime. After the preliminaries of investigation were gone through, thewitnesses were called. None had seen the murder. The body of themurdered man had been found by a laborer. There was a huge sharp stoneunder the head, and death seemed to have resulted from a fracture ofthe skull caused by a heavy fall. There was no appearance of a blow. As to Sim, the circumstantial evidence looked grave. Old Wilson hadbeen seen to pass through Smeathwaite after dark; he must have done soto reach his lodgings at the tailor's house. Sim had been seen abroadabout the same hour. This was not serious; but now came Sim'slandlord. He had called on the tailor the previous morning for hisrent and could not get it. Late the same night Sim had knocked at hisdoor with the money. 

"When I ax't him where he'd come from so late, " said the man, "heglower't at me daiztlike, and said nought. "

"What was his appearance?"

"His claes were a' awry, and he keep't looking ahint him. "

At this there was a murmur among the bystanders. There could not be adoubt of Sim's guilt. 

At a moment of silence Ralph stepped out. He seemed much moved. Mighthe ask the witnesses some questions? Certainly. It was against therule, but still he might do so. Then he inquired exactly into thenature of the wound that had apparently caused death. He asked forprecise information as to the stone on which the head of the deceasedwas found lying. 

It lay fifty yards to the south of the bridge. 

Then he argued that as there was no wound on the dead man other thanthe fracture of the skull, it was plain that death had resulted from afall. How the deceased had come by that fall was now the question. Wasit not presumable that he had slipped his foot and had fallen? Hereminded them that Wilson was lame on one leg. If the fall were theresult of a blow, was it not preposterous to suppose that a man ofSim's slight physique could have inflicted it? Under ordinarycircumstances, only a more powerful man than Wilson himself could havekilled him by a fall. 

At this the murmur rose again among the bystanders, but it sounded toRalph like the murmur of beasts being robbed of their prey. 

As to the tailor having been seen abroad at night, was not that thecommonest occurrence? With the evidence of Sim's landlord Ralph didnot deal. 

It was plain that Sim could not be held over for trial on evidencesuch as was before them. He was discharged, and an open verdict wasreturned. The spectators were not satisfied, however, to receive thetailor back again as an innocent man. Would he go upstairs and look atthe body? There was a superstition among them that a dead body wouldbleed at a touch from the hand of the murderer. Sim said nothing, butstared wildly about him. 

"Come, father, " said Rotha, "do as they wish. "

The little man permitted himself to be led into the room above. Ralphfollowed with a reluctant step. He had cleared his friend, but lookedmore troubled than before. When the company reached the bedside, Ralphstood at its head while one of the men took a cloth off the dead man'sface. 

There was a stain of earth on it. 

Then they drew Sim up in front of it. When his eyes fell on the white, upturned face, he uttered a wild cry and fell senseless to the floor. Ha! The murmur rose afresh. Then there was a dead silence. Rotha wasthe first to break the awful stillness. She knelt over her father'sprostrate form, and said amid stifling sobs, --

"Tell them it is not true; tell them so, father. "

The murmur came again. She understood it, and rose up with flashingeyes. 

"_I_ tell them it is not true, " she said. Then stepping firmly to thebedside, she cried, "Look you all! I, his daughter, touch here thisdead man's hand, and call on God to give a sign if my father did thisthing. "

So saying, she took the hand of the murdered man, and held itconvulsively in her own. 

The murmur died to a hush of suspense and horror. The body remainedunchanged. Loosing her grip, she turned on the bystanders with a lookof mingled pride and scorn. 

"Take this from heaven for a witness that my father is innocent. "

The tension was too much for the spectators, and one by one they leftthe room. Ralph only remained, and when Sim returned to consciousnesshe raised him up, and took him back to Fornside. 

CHAPTER III. IN THE RED LION. 

 What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here? _Midsummer Night's Dream. _

Time out of mind there had stood on the high street of Wythburn amodest house of entertainment, known by the sign of the Red Lion. Occasionally it accommodated the casual traveller who took the valleyroad to the north, but it was intended for the dalesmen, who camethere after the darkness had gathered in, and drank a pot ofhome-brewed ale as they sat above the red turf fire. 

This was the house to which Wilson's body had been carried on themorning it was found on the road. That was about Martinmas. One night, early in the ensuing winter, a larger company than usual was seated inthe parlor of the little inn. It was a quaint old room, twice as longas it was broad, and with a roof so low that the taller shepherdsstooped as they walked under its open beams. 

From straps fixed to the rafters hung a gun, a whip, and a horn. Twosquare windows, that looked out over the narrow causeway, were coveredby curtains of red cloth. An oak bench stood in each window recess. The walls throughout were panelled in oak, which was carved here andthere in curious archaic devices. The panelling had for the most partgrown black with age; the rosier spots, that were polished to thesmoothness and brightness of glass, denoted the positions ofcupboards. Strong settles and broad chairs stood in irregular placesabout the floor, which was of the bare earth, grown hard as stone, andnow sanded. The chimney nook spanned the width of one end of the room. It was an open ingle with seats in the wall at each end, and the fireon the ground between them. A goat's head and the horns of an ox werethe only ornaments of the chimney-breast, which was white-washed. 

On this night of 1660 the wind was loud and wild without. Thesnowstorm that had hung over the head of Castenand in the morning hadcome down the valley as the day wore on. The heavy sleet rattled atthe windows. In its fiercer gusts it drowned the ring of the lustyvoices. The little parlor looked warm and snug with its great cobs ofold peat glowing red as they burnt away sleepily on the broad hearth. At intervals the door would open and a shepherd would enter. He hadhoused his sheep for the night, and now, seated as the newest corner onthe warmest bench near the fire, with a pipe in one hand and a pot ofhot ale in the other, he was troubled by the tempest no more. 

"At Michaelmas a good fat goose, at Christmas stannen' pie, and goodyal awt year roond, " said an old man in the chimney corner. This wasMatthew Branthwaite, the wit and sage of Wythburn, once a weaver, butliving now on the husbandings of earlier life. He was tall and slight, and somewhat bent with age. He was dressed in a long brown sack coat, belted at the waist, below which were pockets cut perpendicular at theside. Ribbed worsted stockings and heavy shoes made up, with thegreater garment, the sum of his visible attire. Old Matthew had a vastreputation for wise saws and proverbs; his speech seemed to be made oflittle else; and though the dalespeople had heard the old sayings athousand times, these seemed never to lose anything of their piquancyand rude force. 

"It's a bad night, Mattha Branthet, " said a new-comer. 

"Dost tak me for a born idiot?" asked the old man. "Dost think Iduddent known that afore I saw thee, that thou must be blodderen oot, 'It's a bad neet, Mattha Branthet?'" There was a dash of rustic spitein the old man's humor which gave it an additional relish. 

"Ye munnet think to win through the world on a feather bed, lad, " headded. 

The man addressed was one Robbie Anderson, a young fellow who had fora long time indulged somewhat freely in the good ale which the sagehad just recommended for use all the year round. Every one had said hewas going fast to his ruin, making beggars of himself and of all abouthim. It was, nevertheless, whispered that Robbie was the favoredsweetheart among many of Matthew Branthwaite's young daughter Liza;but the old man, who had never been remarkable for sensibility, hadsaid over and over again, "She'll lick a lean poddish stick, Bobbie, that weds the like of thee. " Latterly the young man had in a silentway shown some signs of reform. He had not, indeed, given up the goodale to which his downfall had been attributed; but when he came to theRed Lion he seemed to sleep more of his time there than he drank. Sothe village philosopher had begun to pat him on the back, and say, encouragingly, "There's nowt so far aslew, Bobbie, but good manishmentmay set it straight. "

Robbie accepted his rebuff on this occasion with undisturbedequanimity, and, taking a seat on a bench at the back, seemed soon tobe lost in slumber. 

The dalesmen are here in strength to-night. Thomas Fell, the miller ofLegberthwaite, is here, with rubicund complexion and fully developednose. Here, too, is Thomas's cousin, Adam Rutledge, fresh from anadventure at Carlisle, where he has tasted the luxury of Doomsdale, anoisome dungeon reserved for witches and murderers, but sometimestenanted by obstreperous drunkards. Of a more reputable class here isJob Leathes, of Dale Head, a tall, gaunt dalesman, with pale grayeyes. Here is Luke Cockrigg, too, of Aboonbeck Bank; and stout JohnJackson, of Armboth, a large and living refutation of the popularfallacy that the companionship of a ghost must necessarily induce suchappalling effects as are said to have attended the apparitions whichpresented themselves to the prophets and seers of the Hebrews. Johnhas slept for twenty years in the room at Armboth in which thespiritual presence is said to walk, and has never yet seen anythingmore terrible than his own shadow. Here, too, at Matthew Branthwaite'sside, sits little blink-eyed Reuben Thwaite, who _has_ seen theArmboth bogle. He saw it one night when he was returning home from theRed Lion. It took the peculiar form of a lime-and-mould heap, and, though in Reuben's case the visitation was not attended by convulsionsor idiocy, the effect of it was unmistakable. When Reuben awoke nextmorning he found himself at the bottom of a ditch. 

"A wild neet onyways, Mattha, " says Reuben, on Robbie Anderson'sretirement. "As I com alang I saw yan of Angus Ray haystacks blownflat on to the field--doon it went in a bash--in ya bash frae top tobottom. "

"That minds me of Mother Garth and auld Wilson haycocks, " saidMatthew. 

"Why, what was that?" said Reuben. 

"Deary me, what thoo minds it weel eneuf. It was the day Wilson wascocking Angus hay in the low meedow. Mistress Garth came by in theevening, and stood in the road opposite to look at the north leets. 'Come, Sarah, ' says auld Wilson, 'show us yan of thy cantrips; Idivn't care for thee. ' But he'd scarce said it when a whirlblast camefrae the fell and owerturn't iv'ry cock. Then Sarah she laughed ootloud, and she said, 'Ye'll want na mair cantrips, I reckon. ' She wasreet theer. "

"Like eneuf, " said several voices amid a laugh. 

"He was hard on Mother Garth was Wilson, " continued Matthew; "I nivvercould mak ought on it. He called her a witch, and seurly she is a laalbit uncanny. "

"Maybe she wasn't always such like, " said Mr. Jackson. 

"Maybe not, John, " said Matthew; "but she was olas a cross-grained yansin the day she came first to Wy'burn. "

"I thought her a harmless young body with her babby, ' said Mr. Jackson. 

"Let me see, " said Reuben Thwaite; "that must be a matter ofsix-and-twenty year agone. "

"Mair ner that, " said Matthew. "It was long afore I bought my newloom, and that's six-and-twenty year come Christmas. "

"Ey, I mind they said she'd run away frae the man she'd weddedsomewhere in the north, " observed Adam Rutledge through the pewterwhich he had raised to his lips. "Ower fond of his pot for Sarah. "

"Nowt o' t' sort, " said Matthew. "He used to pommel and thresh her upand doon, and that's why she cut away frae him, and that's why she'ssic a sour yan. "

"Ey, that's reets on it, " said Reuben. 

"But auld Wilson's spite on her olas did cap me a laal bit, " saidMatthew again. "He wanted her burnt for a witch. 'It's all stuff andbodderment aboot the witches, ' says I to him ya day; 'there be none. God's aboon the devil!' 'Nay, nay, ' says Wilson, 'it'll be pastjookin' when the heed's off. She'll do something for some of us yit. '"

"Hush, " whispered Reuben, as at that moment the door opened and atall, ungainly young dalesman, with red hair and with a doggedexpression of face, entered the inn. 

A little later, amid a whirl of piercing wind, Ralph Ray entered, shaking the frozen snow from his cloak with long skirts, wet and cold, his staff in his hand, and his dog at his heels. Old Matthew gave hima cheery welcome. 

"It's like ye'd as lief be in this snug room as on the fell to-neet, Ralph?" There was a twinkle in the old man's eye; he had meant morethan he said. 

"I'd full as soon be here as in Sim's cave, Matthew, if that's whatyou mean, " said Ralph, as he held the palms of his hands to the fireand then rubbed them on his knees. 

"Thou wert nivver much of a fool, Ralph, " Matthew answered. And with ashovel that facetious occupant of the hearth lifted another cob ofturf on to the fire. 

"It's lang sin' Sim sat aboon sic a lowe as that, " he added, with amotion of his head downwards. 

"Worse luck, " said Ralph in a low tone, as though trying to avoid thesubject. 

"Whear the pot's brocken, there let the sherds lie, lad, " said the oldman; "keep thy breath to cool thy poddish, forby thy mug of yal, andhere't comes. "

As he spoke the hostess brought up a pot of ale, smoking hot, and putit in Ralph's hand. 

"Let every man stand his awn rackups, Ralph. Sim's a bad lot, and reetserv'd. "

"You have him there, Mattha Branthet, " said the others with a laugh, "a feckless fool. " The young dalesman leaned back on the bench, took adraught of his liquor, rested the pot on his knee, and looked into thefire with the steady gaze of one just out of the darkness. After apause he said quietly, --

"I'll wager there's never a man among you dare go up to Sim's caveto-night. Yet you drive him up there every night of the year. "

"Bad dreams, lad; bad dreams, " said the old man, shaking his head withportentous gravity, "forby the boggle of auld Wilson--that's maybewhat maks Sim ga rakin aboot the fell o' neets without ony eerand. "

"Ay, ay, that's aboot it, " said the others, removing their pipestogether and speaking with the gravity and earnestness of men who hadgot a grip of the key to some knotty problem. "The ghost of auldWilson. "

"The ghost of some of your stout sticks, I reckon, " said Ralph, turning upon them with a shadow of a sneer on his frank face. 

His companions laughed. Just then the wind rose higher than before, and came in a gust down the open chimney. The dogs that had beensleeping on the sanded floor got up, walked across the room withdrooping heads, and growled. Then they lay down again and addressedthemselves afresh to sleep. The young dalesman looked into the mouthof his pewter and muttered, as if to himself, --

"Because there was no evidence to convict the poor soul, suspicion, that is worse than conviction, must so fix upon him that he's afraidto sleep his nights in his bed at home, but must go where never abraggart loon of Wythburn dare follow him. "

"Aye, lad, " said the old man, with a wink of profound import, "foxeshev holes. "

The sally was followed by a general laugh. 

Not noticing it, Ralph said, --

"A hole, indeed! a cleft in the bare rock, open to nigh every wind, deluged by every rain, desolate, unsheltered by bush or bough--a holeno fox would house in. "

Ralph was not unmoved, but the sage in the chimney corner caughtlittle of the contagion of his emotion. Taking his pipe out of hismouth, and with the shank of it marking time to the doggerel, hesaid, --

 "Wheariver there's screes There's mair stones nor trees. "

The further sally provoked a louder laugh. Just then another gust camedown the chimney and sent a wave of mingled heat and cold through theroom. The windows rattled louder with the wind and crackled sharperwith the pelting sleet. The dogs rose and growled. 

"Be quiet there, " cried Ralph. "Down, Laddie, down. " Laddie, alarge-limbed collie, with long shaggy coat still wet and matted andglistening with the hard unmelted snow, had walked to the door and puthis nose to the bottom of it. 

"Some one coming, " said Ralph, turning to look at the dog, andspeaking almost under his breath. 

Robbie Anderson, who had throughout been lounging in silence on thebench near the door, got up sleepily, and put his great hand on thewooden latch. The door flew open by the force of the storm outside. Hepeered for a moment into the darkness through the blinding sleet. Hecould see nothing. 

"No one here!" he said moodily. 

And, putting his broad shoulder to the stout oak door, he forced itback. The wind moaned and hissed through the closing aperture. It waslike the ebb of a broken wave to those who had heard the sea. Turningabout, as the candles on the table blinked, the young man lazilydashed the rain and sleet from his beard and breast, and lay downagain on the settle, with something between a shiver and a yawn. "Cruel night, this, " he muttered, and so saying, he returned to hisnormal condition of somnolence. 

The opening and the closing of the door, together with the draught ofcold air, had awakened a little man who occupied that corner of thechimney nook which faced old Matthew. Coiled up with his legs underhim on the warm stone seat, his head resting against one of the twowalls that bolstered him up on either hand, beneath a great flitch ofbacon that hung there to dry, he had lain asleep throughout thepreceding conversation, only punctuating its periods at intervals withsomewhat too audible indications of slumber. In an instant he was onhis feet. He was a diminutive creature, with something infinitelyamusing in his curious physical proportions. His head was large andwell formed; his body was large and ill formed; his legs were shortand shrunken. He was the schoolmaster of Wythburn, and his name MonseyLaman. The dalesmen found the little schoolmaster the merriest comradethat ever sat with them over a glass. He had a crack for each of them, a song, a joke, a lively touch that cut and meant no harm. They calledhim "the little limber Frenchman, " in allusion to a peculiarity ofgait which in the minds of the heavy-limbed mountaineers was somehowassociated with the idea of a French dancing master. 

With the schoolmaster's awakening the conversation in the inn seemedlikely to take a livelier turn. Even the whistling sleet appeared tobecome less fierce and terrible. True, the stalwart dalesman on thedoor bench yawned and slept as before; but even Ralph's firm lower lipbegan to relax, and he was never a gay and sportive elf. The rest ofthe company charged their pipes afresh and called on the hostess formore spiced ale. 

"'Blessing on your heart, ' says the proverb, 'you brew good ale. ' It'sa Christian virtue, eh, Father?" said Monsey, addressing Matthew inthe opposite corner. 

"Praise the ford as ye find it, " said that sage; "I've found good yalmaks good yarn. Folks that wad put doon good yal ought to betheirselves putten doon. "

"Then you must have been hanged this many a long year, FatherMatthew, " said Monsey, "for you've put down more good ale than any manin Wythburn. "

Old Matthew had to stand the laugh against himself this time. In themidst of it he leaned over to Ralph, and, as though to cover hisdiscomfiture, whispered, "He's gat a lad's heart, the laal man has. "

Then, with the air of one about to communicate a novel idea, --

"And sic as ye gie, sic will ye get, frae him. "

"Well, well, " he added aloud, "ye munnet think I cannot stand myrackups. "

The old man, despite this unexpected fall, was just beginning to showhis mettle. The sententious graybeard was never quite so happy, neverlooked quite so wise, never shook his head with such an air ofgood-humored consequence, never winked with such profundity offacetiousness, as when "the laal limber Frenchman" was giving a "merrytouch. " Wouldn't Monsey sing summat and fiddle to it too; aye, that hewould, Mattha knew reet weel. 

"Sing!" cried the little man, --"sing! Monsieur, the dog shall try methis conclusion. If he wag his tail, then will I sing; if he do notwag his tail, then--then will I not be silent. What say you Laddie?"The dog responded to the appeal with an opportune if not anintelligent wag of that member on which so momentous an issue hung. From one of the rosy closets in the wall a fiddle was forthwithbrought out, and soon the noise of the tempest was drowned in thepreliminary tuning of strings and running of scales. 

"You shall beat the time, my patriarch, " said Monsey. 

"Nay, man; it's thy place to kill it, " answered Matthew. 

"Then you shall mark the beat, or beat the mark, or make your mark. You could never write, you know. "

It was a sight not to be forgotten to see the little schoolmasterbrandishing his fiddlestick, beating time with his foot, and breakingout into a wild shout when he hit upon some happy idea, for herejoiced in a gift of improvisation. A burst of laughter greeted theclimax of his song, which turned on an unheroic adventure of oldMatthew's. The laughter had not yet died away when a loud knockingcame to the door. Ralph jumped to his feet. 

"I said some one was coming; and he's been here before, whoever heis. "

At that he walked to the door and opened it. Laddie was there beforehim. 

"Is Ralph Ray here?"

It was the voice of a woman, charged with feeling. 

Ralph's back had been to the light, and hence his face had not beenrecognized. But the light fell on the face of the new-comer. 

"Rotha!" he said. He drew her in, and was about to shut out the stormbehind her. 

"No, " she said almost nervously. "Come with me; some one waits outsideto see you; some one who won't--can't come in. "

She was wet; her hair was matted over her forehead, the sleet lying inbeads upon it. A hood that had been pulled hurriedly over her head wasblown partly aside. Ralph would have drawn her to the fire. 

"Not yet, " she said again. Her eyes looked troubled, startled, denoting pain. 

"Then I will go with you at once, " he said. 

They turned; Laddie darted out before them, and in a moment they werein the blackness of the night. 

CHAPTER IV. THE OUTCAST. 

The storm had abated. The sleet and rain had ceased, but the windstill blew fierce and strong, driving black continents of cloud acrossa crescent moon. It was bitingly cold. Rotha walked fast and spokelittle. Ralph understood their mission. "Is he far away?" he said. 

"Not far. "

Her voice had a tremor of emotion, and as the wind carried it to himit seemed freighted with sadness. But the girl would have hidden herfears. 

"Perhaps he's better now, " she said. 

Ralph quickened his steps. The dog had gone on in front, and was lostin the darkness. 

"Give me your hand, Rotha; the sleet is hard and slape. "

"Don't heed me, Ralph; go faster; I'll follow. "

Just then a sharp bark was heard close at hand, followed by anotherand another, but in a different key. Laddie had met a friend. 

"He's coming, " Rotha said, catching her breath. 

"He's here. "

With the shrill cry of a hunted creature that has got back, wounded, to its brethren, Sim seemed to leap upon them out of the darkness. 

"Ralph, take me with you--take me with you; do not let me go back tothe fell to-night. I cannot go--no, believe me, I cannot--I dare not. Take me, Ralph; have mercy on me; do not despise me for the cowardthat I am; it's enough to make me curse the great God--no, no; notthat neither. But, Ralph, Ralph--"

The poor fellow would have fallen breathless and exhausted at Ralph'sfeet, but he held him up and spoke firmly but kindly to him, --

"Bravely, Sim; bravely, man; there, " he said, as the tailor regainedsome composure. 

"You sha'n't go back to-night. How wet you are, though! There's not adry rag to your body, man. You must first return with me to the fireat the Red Lion, and then we'll go--"

"No, no, no!" cried Sim; "not there either--never there; better thewind and rain, aye, better anything, than that. "

And he turned his head over his shoulder as though peering into thedarkness behind. Ralph understood him. There were wilder companionsfor this poor hunted creature than any that lived on the mountains. 

"But you'll never live through the night in clothes like these. "

Sim shivered with the cold; his teeth chattered; his lank hands shookas with ague. 

"Never live? Oh, but I must not die, Ralph; no not yet--not yet. "

Was there, then, something still left in life that a poor outcast likethis should cling to it?

"I'll go back with you, " he said more calmly. They turned, and withSim between them Ralph and Rotha began to retrace their steps. Theyhad not far to go, when Sim reeled like a drunken man, and when theywere within a few paces he stopped. 

"No, " he said, "I can't. " His breath was coming quick and fast. 

"Come, man, they shall give you the ingle bench; I'll see to that. Come now, " said Ralph soothingly. 

"I've walked in front of this house for an hour to-night, I have, "said Sim, "to and fro, to and fro, waiting for you; waiting, waiting;starting at my own shadow cast from the dim lowe of the windows, andthen flying to hide when the door did at last--at long last--open orshut. "

Ralph shuddered. It had been as he thought. Then he said, --

"Yes, yes; but you'll come now, like a brave fellow--'a braw chiel, 'you know. "

Sim started at the pleasantry with which Ralph had tried to soothe hisspirits. It struck a painful memory. Ralph felt it too. 

"Come, " he said, in an altered tone. 

"No, " cried Sim, clasping his hands over his head. "They're worse thanwild beasts, they are. To-night I went up to the cave as usual. Thewind was blowing strong and keen in the valley; it had risen to atempest on the screes. I went in and turned up the bracken for my bed. Then the rain began to fall; and the rain became hail, and the hailbecame sleet, and pelted in upon me, it did. The wind soughed about mylone home--my home!"

Again Sim reeled in the agony of his soul. 

"This is peace to that wind, " he continued; "yes, peace. Then thestones began to rumble down the rocks, and the rain to pour in throughthe great chinks in the roof of the cave. Yet I stayed there--Istayed. Well, the ghyll roared louder and louder. It seemed tooverflow the gullock, it did. I heard the big bowders shifted fromtheir beds by the tumbling waters. They rolled with heavy thuds downthe brant sides of the fell--down, down, down. But I kept closer, closer. Presently I heard the howl of the wolves--"

"No, Sim; not that, old friend. " "Yes, the pack from Lauvellen. They'dbeen driven out of their caves--not even they could live in theircaves tonight. " The delirium of Sim's spirit seemed to overcome him. 

"No more now, man, " said Ralph, putting his arm about him. "You'resafe, at least, and all will be well with you. "

"Wait. Nearer and nearer they came, nearer and nearer, till I knewthey were above me, around me. Yet I kept close, I did, I almost felttheir breath. Well, well, at last I saw two red eyes gleaming at methrough the darkness--"

"You're feverish to-night, Sim, " interrupted Ralph. 

"Then a great flash of lightning came. It licked the ground aforeme--ay, licked. Then a burst of thunder--it must have been athunderbolt--I couldn't hear the wind and sleet and water. I fainted, that must have been it. When I came round I groped about me where Ilay--"

"A dream, Sim. "

"No, it was no dream! What was it I touched? I was delivered! Thankheaven, _that_ death was not mine. I rose, staggered out, and fled. "

By the glimmering light from the windows of the inn--there came thesound of laughter from within--Ralph could see that hysterical tearscoursed down the poor tailor's cheeks. Rotha stood aside, her handscovering her face. 

"And, at last, when you could not meet me here, you went to Fornsidefor Rotha to seek me?" asked Ralph. 

"Yes, I did. Don't despise me--don't do that. " Then in a supplicatingtone he added, --

"I couldn't bear it from you, Ralph. "

The tears came again. The direful agony of Sim's soul seemed at lengthto conquer him, and he fell to the ground insensible. In an instantRotha was on her knees in the hardening road at her father's side; butshe did not weep. 

"We have no choice now, " she said in a broken voice. 

"None, " answered Ralph. "Let me carry him in. "

When the door of the inn had closed behind Ralph as he went out withRotha, old Matthew Branthwaite, who had recovered his composure afterMonsey's song, and who had sat for a moment with his elbow on hisknee, his pipe in his hand and his mouth still open, from which theshaft had just been drawn, gave a knowing twitch to his wrinkled faceas he said, --

"So, so, that's the fell the wind blows frae!"

"Blow low, my black feutt, " answered Monsey, "and don't blab. "

"When the whins is oot of blossom, kissing's oot o' fashion--nowt willcome of it, " replied the sage on reflection. 

"Wrong again, great Solomon!" said Monsey. "Ralph is not the man toput away the girl because her father is in disgrace. "

"Do ye know he trystes with the lass?"

"Not I. "

"Maybe ye'r like the rest on us: ye can make nowt on him, back neredge. "

"Right now, great sage; the sun doesn't shine through him. "

"He's a great lounderan fellow, " said one of the dalesmen, speakinginto the pewter at his mouth. He was the blacksmith of Wythburn. 

"What do you say?" asked Monsey. 

"Nowt!" the man growled sulkily. 

"So ye said nowt?" inquired Matthew. 

"Nowt to you, or any of you. "

"Then didst a nivver hear it said, 'He that talks to himsel' clattersto a fool'?"

The company laughed. 

"No, " resumed Matthew, turning to the schoolmaster, "Ralph will nivvertryste with the lass of yon hang-gallows of a tailor. The gallowsrope's all but roond his neck already. It's awesome to see him in hisbarramouth in the fell side. He's dwinnelt away to a atomy. 

"It baffles me where he got the brass frae to pay his rent, " said oneof the shepherds. "Where did he get it, schoolmaster?"

Monsey answered nothing. The topic was evidently a fearsome thing tohim. His quips and cracks were already gone. 

"Where did he get it, _I_ say?" repeated the man; with the air of onewho was propounding a trying problem. 

Old Matthew removed his pipe. 

"A fool may ask mair questions ner a doctor can answer. "

The shepherd shifted in his seat. 

"That Wilson was na shaks nowther, " continued Matthew quietly. "He wasaccustomed to 'tummel' his neighbors, and never paused to inquire intotheir bruises. He'd olas the black dog on his back--leastwayslatterly. Ey, the braizzant taistrel med have done something for Ralphan he lived langer. He was swearing what he'd do, the ungratefu' fool;auld Wilson was a beadless body. "

"They say he threatened Ralph's father, Angus, " said Monsey, with aperceptible shiver. 

"Ay, but Angus is bad to bang. I mind his dingin' ower a bull on itsback. A girt man, Angus, and varra dreadfu' when he's angert. "

"Dus'ta mind the fratch thoo telt me aboot atween Angus and auldWilson?" said Reuben Thwaite to Matthew Branthwaite. 

"What quarrel was that?" asked Monsey. 

"Why, the last fratch of all, when Wilson gat the sneck posset fraeShoulthwaite, " said Matthew. 

"I never heard of it, " said the schoolmaster. 

"There's nowt much to hear. Ralph and mysel' we were walking up to theMoss together ya day, when we heard Angus and Wilson at a bout ofwords. Wilson he said to Angus with a gay, bitter sneer, 'Ye'll fainswappit wi' me yet, ' said he. 'He'll yoke wi' an unco weird. Thy brawchiel 'ul tryste wi' th' hangman soon, I wat. ' And Angus he was fairmad, I can tell ye, and he said to Wilson, 'Thoo stammerin' andyammerin' taistrel, thoo; I'll pluck a lock of thy threep. Bring thewarrant, wilt thoo? Thoo savvorless and sodden clod-heed! I'll whipthee with the taws. Slipe, I say, while thoo's weel--slipe!'"

"And Angus would have done it, too, and not the first time nowther, "said little Reuben, with a knowing shake of the head. 

"Well, Matthew, what then?" said Monsey. 

"Weel, with that Angus he lifted up his staff, and Wilson shrieked ootafore he gat the blow. But Angus lowered his hand and said to him, says he, 'Time eneuf to shriek when ye're strucken. '"

"And when the auld one did get strucken, he could not shriek, " addedReuben. 

"We know nowt of that reetly, " said Matthew, "and maybe nivver will. "

"What was that about a warrant?" said Monsey. 

"Nay, nay, laal man, that's mair ner ony on us knows for certain. ""But ye have a notion on it, have ye not?" said Reuben, with a twinklewhich was intended to flatter Matthew into a communicative spirit. 

"I reckon I hev, " said the weaver, with a look of self-satisfaction. 

"Did Ralph understand it?" asked Monsey. 

"Not he, schoolmaister. If he did, I could mak' nowt on him, for Iasked him theer and then. "

"But ye knows yersel' what the warrant meant, don't ye?" said Reubensignificantly. 

"Weel, man, it's all as I telt ye; the country's going to the dogs, and young Charles he's cutting the heed off nigh a'most iv'ry man asfought for Oliver agen him. And it's as I telt ye aboot the spies ofthe government, there's a spy ivrywhear--maybe theer's yan herenow--and auld Wilson he was nowt ner mair ner less ner a spy, and hemeant to get a warrant for Ralph Ray, and that's the lang and short onit. "

"I reckon Sim made _the_ short on it, " said Reuben with a smirk. "Hescarce knew what a good turn he was doing for young Ralph yon neet inMartinmas. "

"But don't they say Ralph saved Wilson's life away at the wars?" saidMonsey. "Why could he want to inform against him and have him hanged?"

"A dog winnet yowl an ye hit him with a bone, but a spy is worse nerony dog, " answered Matthew sententiously. 

"But _why_ could he wish to do it?"

"His fratch with Angus, that was all. "

"There must have been more than that, Matthew, there must. "

"I never heeard on it, then. "

"Old Wilson must have had money on him that night, " said Monsey, whohad been looking gravely into the fire, his hands clasped about hisknees. Encouraged by this support of the sapient idea he had hintedat, the shepherd who had spoken before broke in with, "Where else didhe get it _I_ say?"

"Ye breed of the cuckoo, " said Matthew, "ye've gat no rhyme but yan. "

Amid the derisive laughter that followed, the door of the inn wasagain opened, and in a moment more Ralph Ray stood in the middle ofthe floor with Simeon Stagg in his arms. Rotha was behind, pale butcomposed. Every man in the room rose to his feet. The landlord steppedforward, with no pleasant expression on his face; and from an innerroom his wife came bustling up. Little Monsey stood clutching andtwitching his fingers. Old Matthew had let the pipe drop out of hismouth, and it lay broken on the hearth. 

"He has fainted, " said Ralph, still holding his burden; "turn thatbench to the fire. "

No one stirred. Every one stood for the moment as if stupefied. Sim'shead hung over Ralph's arm: his face was as pale as death. 

"Out of the way, " said Ralph, brushing past a great lumbering fellow, with his mouth agape. 

The company found their tongues at last. Were they to sit with "thishang-gallows of a tailor"? The landlord, thinking himself appealed to, replied that he "couldn't hev na brulliment" in his house. 

"There need be no broil, " said Ralph, laying the insensible form on aseat and proceeding to strip off the wet outer garments. Then turningto the hostess, he said, --

"Martha, bring me water, quick. "

Martha turned about and obeyed him without a word. 

"He'll be better soon, " said Ralph to Robbie Anderson. He wassprinkling water on the white face that lay before him. Robbie hadrecovered his wakefulness, and was kneeling at Sim's feet, chafing hishands. 

Rotha stood at her father's side, motionless. 

"There, he's coming to. Martha, " said Ralph, "hadn't you better takeRotha to the kitchen fire?"

The two women left the room. 

Sim's eyes opened; there was a watery humor in them which was nottears. The color came back to his cheeks, but with the return ofconsciousness his face grew thinner and more haggard. He heaved aheavy sigh, and seemed to realize his surroundings. With the only handdisengaged (Robbie held one of them) he clutched at Ralph's belt. 

"I'm better--let me go, " he said in a hoarse voice, trying to rise. 

"No!" said Ralph, --"no!" and he gently pushed him back into hisrecumbent position. 

"You had best let the snuffling waistrel go, " said one of the men in asurly tone. "Maybe he never fainted at all. "

It was the blacksmith who had growled at the mention of Ralph's namein Ralph's absence. They called him Joe Garth. 

"Be silent, you loon, " answered Robbie Anderson, turning upon the lastspeaker. 

Ralph seemed not to have heard him. 

"Here, " he said, tossing Sim's coat to Matthew, who had returned witha new pipe to his seat in the chimney corner, "dry that at the fire. "The coat had been growing hard with the frost. 

"This wants the batling stone ower it, " said the old weaver, spreadingit out before him. 

"See to this, schoolmaster, " said Ralph, throwing Sim's cap into hislap. 

Monsey jumped, with a scream, out of his seat as though stung by anadder. 

Ralph looked at him for a moment with an expression of pity. 

"I might have known you were timid at heart, schoolmaster. Perhapsyou're gallant over a glass. "

There could be no doubt of little Monsey's timidity. All his jests hadforsaken him. 

Sim had seen the gesture that expressed horror at contact even withhis clothes. He was awake to every passing incident with a feverishalertness. 

"Let me go, " he said again, with a look of supplicatory appeal. 

Old Matthew got up and opened the door. 

"Sista, there's some betterment in the weather, now; it teem't awhileago. "

"What of that?" asked Ralph; but he understood the observation. 

"For God's sake let me go, " cried Sim in agony, looking first at oneface and then at another. 

"No, " said Ralph, and sat down beside him. Robbie had gone back to hisbench. 

"Ye'll want the bull-grips to keep _him_ quiet, " said old Matthew toRalph, with a sneer. 

"And the ass's barnicles to keep your tongue in your mouth, " addedRalph sternly. 

"For fault of wise men fools sit on the bench, or we should hev noneof this, " continued Matthew. "I reckon some one that's here is nighax't oot by Auld Nick in the kirk of the nether world. "

"Then take care you're not there yourself to give something at thebridewain. "

Old Mathew grumbled something under his breath. 

There was a long silence. Ralph had rarely been heard to speak sobitterly. It was clear that opposition had gone far enough. Sim'swatery eyes were never for an instant still. Full of a sickeningapprehension, they cast furtive glances into every face. The poorcreature seemed determined to gather up into his wretched breast thescorn that was blasting it. The turf on the hearth gave out a greatheat, but the tailor shivered as with cold. Then Ralph reached thecoat and cap, and, after satisfying himself that they were dry, hehanded them back to Sim, who put them on. Perhaps he had mistaken theact, for, rising to his feet, Sim looked into Ralph's faceinquiringly, as though to ask if he might go. 

"Not yet, Sim, " said Ralph. "You shall go when I go. You lodge with meto-night. "

Monsey in the corner looked aghast, and crept closer under the flitchof bacon that hung above him. 

"Men, " said Ralph, "hearken here. You call it a foul thing to kill aman, and so it is. "

Monsey turned livid; every one held his breath. Ralph went on, --

"Did you ever reflect that there are other ways of taking a man's lifebesides killing him?"

There was no response. Ralph did not seem to expect one, for hecontinued, --

"You loathe the man who takes the blood of his fellow-man, and you'reright so to do. It matters nothing to you that the murdered man mayhave been a worse man than the murderer. You're right there too. Youlook to the motive that inspired the crime. Is it greed or revenge?Then you say, 'This man must die. ' God grant that such horror ofmurder may survive among us. " There was a murmur of assent. 

"But it is possible to kill without drawing blood. We may be murderersand never suspect the awfulness of our crime. To wither withsuspicion, to blast with scorn, to dog with cruel hints, to torturewith hard looks', --this is to kill without blood. Did you ever thinkof it? There are worse hangmen than ever stood on the gallows. "

"Ay, but _he's_ shappin' to hang hissel', " muttered MatthewBranthwaite. And there was some inaudible muttering among the others. 

"I know what you mean, " Ralph continued. "That the guilty man whom thelaw cannot touch is rightly brought under the ban of his fellows. Yes, it is Heaven's justice. "

Sim crept closer to Ralph, and trembled perceptibly. 

"Men, hearken again, " said Ralph. "You know I've spoken up for Sim, "and he put his great arm about the tailor's shoulders; "but you don'tknow that I have never asked him, and he has never said whether he isinnocent or not. The guilty man may be in this room, and he may not beSimeon Stagg. But if he were my own brother--my own father--"

Old Matthew's pipe had gone out; he was puffing at the dead shaft. Simrose up; his look of abject misery had given place to a look ofdefiance; he stamped on the floor. 

"Let me go; let me go, " he cried. 

Robbie Anderson came up and took him by the hand; but Sim's brainseemed rent in twain, and in a burst of hysterical passion he fellback into his seat, and buried his head in his breast. 

"He'll be hanged with the foulest collier yet, " growled one of themen. It was Joe Garth again. He was silenced once more. The others hadbegun to relent. 

"I've not yet asked him if he is innocent, " continued Ralph; "but thispersecution drives me to it, and I ask him now. "

"Yes, yes, " cried Sim, raising his head, and revealing an awfulcountenance. A direful memory seemed to haunt every feature. 

"Do you know the murderer?"

"I do--that is--what am I saying?--let me go. "

Sim had got up, and was tramping across the floor. Ralph got up too, and faced him. 

"It is your duty, in the sight of Heaven, to give that man's name. "

"No, no; heaven forbid, " cried Sim. 

"It is your duty to yourself and to--"

"I care nothing for myself. "

"And to your daughter--think of that. Would you tarnish the child'sname with the sin laid on the father's--"

"God in heaven help me!" cried Sim, tremulous with emotion. "Ralph, Ralph, ask me no more--you don't know what you ask. "

"It is your duty to Heaven, I say. "

He put his hand on Sim's shoulder, and looked steadily in his eyes. With a fearful cry Sim broke from his grasp, sprung to the door, andin an instant was lost in the darkness without. Ralph stood where Simhad left him, transfixed by some horrible consciousness. A slowparalysis seemed to possess all his senses. What had he read in thoseeyes that seemed to live before him still?

"Good neet, " said old Matthew as he got up and trudged out. Most ofthe company rose to go. "Good night, " said more than one, but Ralphanswered nothing. Robbie Anderson was last. 

"Good night, Ralph, " he said. His gruff voice was thick in his throat. 

"Aye, good night, lad, " Ralph answered vacantly. 

Robbie had got to the door, and was leaning with one hand on thedoor-frame. Coming back, he said, --

"Ralph, where may your father be to-night?"

"At Gaskarth--it's market day--he took the last shearing. "

He spoke like one in a sleep. Then Robbie left him. 

"Is Rotha ready to go?" he asked. 

CHAPTER V. THE EMPTY SADDLE. 

 The night has been unruly:. . . Lamentings heard i' the air; strange screams of death. _Macbeth_. 

The storm was now all but over. The moon shone clear, and the cloudsthat scudded across its face were few. Lauvellen, to the east, wasvisible to the summit; and Raven Craig, to the west, loomed blackbefore the moon. A cutting wind still blew, and a frost had set insharp and keen. Already the sleet that had fallen was frozen in sheetsalong the road, which was thereby made almost impassable even to thesure footsteps of the mountaineer. The trees no longer sighed andmoaned with the wind; on the stiffening firs lay beads of frozen snow, and the wind as it passed through them soughed. The ghylls were fullerand louder, and seemed to come from every hill; the gullocksoverflowed, but silence was stealing over the streams, and the deeperrivers seemed scarcely to flow. 

Ralph and Rotha walked side by side to Shoulthwaite Moss. It wasuseless for the girl to return to Fornside, Ralph had said. Her fatherwould not be there, and the desolate house was no place for her on anight like this. She must spend the night under his mother's charge. 

They had exchanged but few words on setting out. The tragedy of herfather's life was settling on the girl's heart with a nameless misery. It is the first instinct of the child's nature to look up to theparent as its refuge, its tower of strength. That bulwark may beshattered before the world, and yet to the child's intuitive feelingit may remain the same. Proudly, steadfastly the child heart continuesto look up to the wreck that is no wreck in the eyes of its love. Ah!how well it is if the undeceiving never comes! But when all thatseemed strong, when all that seemed true, becomes to the unveiledvision weak and false, what word is there that can represent thesadness of the revealment?

"Do you think, Ralph, that I could bear a terrible answer if I were toask you a terrible question?"

Rotha broke the silence between them with these words. Ralph repliedpromptly, --

"Yes, I do. What would you ask?"

The girl appeared powerless to proceed. She tried to speak andstopped, withdrawing her words and framing them afresh, as thoughfearful of the bluntness of her own inquiry. Her companion perceivedher distress, and coming to her relief with a cheerier tone, hesaid, --

"Don't fear to ask, Rotha. I think I can guess your question. You wantto know if--"

"Ralph, " the girl broke in hurriedly--she could better bear to say theword herself than to hear him say it--"Ralph, he is my father, andthat has been enough. I could not love him the less whatever mighthappen. I have never asked him--anything. He is my father, and thoughhe be--whatever he may be--he is my father _still_, you know. But, Ralph, tell me--you say I can bear it--and I can--I feel I cannow--tell me, Ralph, _was_ it poor father after all?"

Rotha had stopped and covered up her face in her hands. Ralph stoppedtoo. His voice was deep and thick as he answered slowly, --

"No, Rotha, it was not. "

"_Not_ father?" cried the girl; "you know it was not?"

"I _know_ it was not. "

The voice again was not the voice of one who brings glad tidings, butthe words were themselves full of gladness for the ear on which theyfell, and Rotha seemed almost overcome by her joy. She clutchedRalph's arm with both hands. 

"Heaven be praised!" she said; "now I can brave anything--poor, poorfather!"

After this the girl almost leapt over the frozen road in the ecstasyof her new-found delight. The weight of weary months of gatheringsuspense seemed in one moment to have fallen from her forever. Halflaughing, half weeping, she bounded along, the dog sporting besideher. Her quick words rippled on the frosty air. Occasionally sheencountered a flood that swept across the way from the hills above tothe lake beneath, but her light foot tripped over it before a handcould be offered her. Their path lay along the pack-horse road by theside of the mere, and time after time she would scud down to thewater's edge to pluck the bracken that grew there, or to test the thinice with her foot. She would laugh and then be silent, and then breakout into laughter again. She would prattle to herself unconsciouslyand then laugh once more. All the world seemed made anew to this happygirl to-night. 

True enough, nature meant her for a heartsome lass. Her hair was dark, and had a tangled look, as though lately caught in brambles or stillthick with burrs. Her dark eyebrows and long lashes shaded the darkestof black-brown eyes. Her mouth was alive with sensibility. Every shadeof feeling could play upon her face. Her dress was loose, and somewhatnegligently worn; one never felt its presence or knew whether it werepoor or fine. Her voice, though soft, was generally high-pitched, notlike the whirl of wind through the trees, but like its sigh throughthe long grass, and came, perhaps, to the mountain girl from theeffort to converse above the sound of these natural voices. There wasa tremor in her voice sometimes, and, when she was taken unawares, asidelong look in her eyes. There was something about her in theseserious moods that laid hold of the imagination. She had surely a wellof strength which had been given for her own support and the solace ofothers at some future moment, only too terrible. But not to-night, asshe tripped along under the moonlight, did the consciousness of thatmoment overshadow her. 

And what of Ralph, who strode solemnly by her side? A change had comeover him of late. He spoke little, and never at all of the scenes hehad witnessed in his long campaign--never of his own share in them. Hehad become at once an active and a brooding man. The shadow of asupernatural presence seemed to hang over everything. Tonight thatshadow was blacker than before. 

In the fulness of her joy Rotha had not marked the tone in which Ralphspoke when he gave her in a word all the new life that bounded in herveins. But that tone was one of sadness, and that word had seemed todrain away from veins of his some of the glad life that now pulsatedin hers. Was it nothing that the outcast among men whom he alone, savethis brave girl, had championed, had convinced him of his innocence?Nothing that the light of a glad morning had broken on the long nightof the blithe creature by his side, and brightened her young life withthe promise of a happier future?

"Look, Ralph, look at the withered sedge, all frost-covered!" saidRotha in her happiness, tripping up to his side, with a sprig newlyplucked in her hand. Ralph answered her absently, and she rattled onto herself, "Rotha shall keep you, beautiful sedge! How you glisten inthe moonlight!" Then the girl broke out with a snatch of an old Borderballad, --

 Dacre's gane to the war, Willy, Dacre's gane to the war; Dacre's lord has crossed the ford, And left us for the war. 

"Poor father, " she said more soberly, "poor father; but he'll comeback home now--come back to our _own_ home again"; and then, unconscious of the burden of her song, she sang, --

 Naworth's halls are dead, Willy, Naworth's halls are dead; One lonely foot sounds on the keep, And that's the warder's tread. 

The moon shone clearly; the tempest had lulled, and the silvery voiceof the girl was all that could be heard above the distant rumble ofthe ghylls and the beat of Ralph's heavy footsteps. In a moment Rothaseemed to become conscious that her companion was sad as well assilent. How had this escaped her so long? she thought. 

"But you don't seem quite so glad, Ralph, " she said in an alteredtone, half of inquiry, half of gentle reproach, as of one who feltthat her joy would have been the more if another had shared it. 

"Don't I? Ah, but I _am_ glad--that is, I'm glad your father won'tneed old Mattha's bull-grips, " he said, with an attempt to laugh athis own pleasantry. 

How hollow the laugh sounded on his own ears! It was not what hisfather would have called heartsome. What was this sadness that wasstealing over him and stiffening every sense? Had he yet realized itin all its fulness? Ralph shook himself and struck his hand on hisbreast, as though driving out the cold. He could not drive out theforeboding that had taken a seat there since Sim looked last in hiseyes and cried, "Let me go. "

Laddie frisked about them, and barked back at the echo of his ownvoice, that resounded through the clear air from the hollow places inthe hills. They had not far to go now. The light of the kitchen windowat Shoulthwaite would be seen from the turn of the road. Only throughyonder belt of trees that overhung the "lonnin, " and they would be inthe court of Angus Ray's homestead. 

"Ralph, " said Rotha--she had walked in silence for some littletime--"all the sorrow of my life seems gone. You have driven it allaway. " Her tremulous voice belied the light laugh that followed. 

He looked down at her tear-dimmed eyes. Was her great sorrow indeedgone? Had he driven it away from her? If so, was it not all, and more, being gathered up into his own heart instead? Was it not so?

"You have borne it bravely, Rotha--very bravely, " he answered. "Do youthink, now, that I could have borne it as you have done?"

There was a tremor in his tone and a tenderness of expression in hisface that Rotha had never before seen there. 

"Bear it as I have done?" she repeated. "There is nothing you couldnot bear. " And her radiant face was lit up in that white moonlightwith a perfect sunshine of beauty. 

"I don't know, Rotha, my girl, " he answered falteringly; "I don'tknow--yet. " The last words were spoken with his head dropped on to hisbreast. 

Rotha stepped in front of him, and, putting her hand on his shoulder, stopped him and looked searchingly in his face. 

"What is this sadness, Ralph? Is there something you have not toldme--something behind, which, when it comes, will take the joy out ofthis glad news you give me?"

"I could not be so cruel as that, Rotha; do you think I could?"

A smile was playing upon his features as he smoothed her hair over herforehead and drew forward the loose hood that had fallen from it. 

"And there is nothing to come after--nothing?"

"Nothing that need mar your happiness, my girl, or disturb your love. You love your father, do you not?"

"Better than all the world!" Rotha answered impulsively. "Poorfather!"

"Better than all the world, " echoed Ralph vacantly, and with somethinglike a sigh. Her impetuous words seemed to touch him deeply, and herepeated them once more, but they died away on his lips. "Better thanall the--" Then they walked on. 

They had almost reached the belt of trees that overhung the road. 

"Ralph, " said Rotha, pausing, "may I--kiss you?"

He stooped and kissed her on the forehead. Then the weight about hisheart seemed heavier than before. By that kiss he felt that betweenhim and the girl at his side there was a chasm that might never bebridged. Had he loved her? He hardly knew; he had never put it tohimself so. Did she not love him? He could not doubt it. And her kiss!yes, it was the kiss of love; but _what_ love? The frank, upturnedface answered him but too well. 

They were within the shadow of the trees now, and could see the lightsat Shoulthwaite. In two minutes more their journey would be done. 

"Take my hand, Rotha; you might slip on the frosty road in darknesslike this. "

The words were scarcely spoken, when Rotha gave a little cry andstumbled. "In an instant Ralph's arm was about her, and she hadregained her feet. 

"What is that?" she said, trembling with fear, and turning backwards. 

"A drift of frozen sleet, no doubt, " Ralph said, kicking with his footat the spot where Rotha slipped. 

"No, no, " she answered, trembling now with some horrible apprehension. 

Ralph had stepped back, and was leaning over something that lay acrossthe road. The dog was snuffling at it. 

"What is it?" said Rotha nervously. 

He did not answer. He was on his knees beside it; his hands were onit. There was a moment of agonizing suspense. 

"What is it?" Rotha repeated. 

Still there came no reply. Ralph had risen, but he knelt again. Hisbreath was coming fast. Rotha thought she could hear the beating ofhis heart. 

"Oh, but I must know!" cried the girl. And she stepped backward asthough to touch for herself the thing that lay there. 

"Nothing, " said Ralph, rising and taking her firmly by the hand thatshe had outstretched, --"nothing--a sack of corn has fallen from thewagon, nothing more. " He spoke in a hoarse whisper. 

He drew her forward a few paces, but she stopped. The dog was standingwhere Ralph had knelt, and was howling wofully. 

"Laddie, come here, " Ralph said; "Rotha, come away. "

"I could bear the truth, Ralph--I think I could, " she answered. 

He put his arm about her, and drew her along without a word. She felthis powerful frame quiver and his strong voice die within him. Sheguessed the truth. She knew this man as few had known him, as noneother could know him. 

"Go back, Ralph, " she said; "I'll hurry on. " And still the dog howledbehind them. 

Ralph seemed not to hear her, but continued to walk by her side. Herheart sank, and she looked piteously into his face. 

And now the noise reached them of hurrying footsteps in front. Peoplewere coming towards them from the house. Lanterns were approachingthem. In another moment they were in the court. All was astir. Thewhole household seemed gathered there, and in the middle of the yardstood the mare Betsy, saddled but riderless, her empty wool-creelsstrapped to her sides. 

"Thank Heaven, here is Ralph, " said Willy. He was standing bareheaded, with the bridle in his hand. 

"Bless thee!" cried Mrs. Ray as her son came up to her. "Here is themare back home, my lad, but where is thy father?"

"The roads are bad to-night, mother, " Ralph said, with a violenteffort to control the emotion that was surging up to his throat. 

"God help us, Ralph; you can't mean that!" said Willy, catching hisbrother's drift. 

"Give me the lantern, boy, " said Ralph to a young cowherd that stoodnear. "Rotha, my lass, take mother into the house. " Then he stepped upto where his mother stood petrified with dismay, and kissed hertenderly. He had rarely done so before. The good dame understood himand wept. Rotha put her arms about the mother's neck and kissed hertoo, and helped her in. 

Willy was unmanned. "You don't mean that you know that father--"

He could say no more. Ralph had raised the lantern to the level of themare's creels to remove the strap that bound them, and the light hadfallen on his face. 

"Ralph, is he hurt--much hurt?"

"He is--dead!"

Willy fell back as one that had been dealt a blow. 

"God help me! O God, help me!" he cried. 

"Give me the reins, " said Ralph, "and be here when I come back. Ican't be long. Keep the door of the kitchen shut--mother is there. Gointo his room, and see that all is ready. "

"No, no, I can't do that. " Willy was shuddering visibly. 

"Remain here, at least, and give no warning when I return. "

"Take me with you, Ralph; I can't stay here alone. "

"Take the lantern, then, " said Ralph. 

And the brothers walked, with the mare between them, to where the pathwas, under the shadow of the trees. What shadow had fallen that nighton their life's path, which Time might never raise? Again and againthe horse slipped its foot on the frozen road. Again and again Willywould have stopped and turned back; but he went on-he dared not toleave his brother's side. The dog howled in front of them. Theyreached the spot at last. 

Angus Ray lay there, his face downwards. The mighty frame was stilland cold and stiff as the ice beneath it. The strong man had fallenfrom the saddle on to his head, and, dislocating his neck, had metwith instant death. Close at hand were the marks of the horse'ssliding hoofs. She had cast one of her shoes in the fall, and there itlay. Her knees, too, were still bleeding. 

"Give me the lantern, Willy, " said Ralph, going down on his knees tofeel the heart. He had laid his hand on it before, and knew too wellit did not beat. But he opened the cloak and tried once more. Willywas walking to and fro across the road, not daring to look down. Andin the desolation of that moment the great heart of his brother failedhim too, and he dropped his head over the cold breast beside which heknelt, and from eyes unused to weep the tears fell hot upon it. 

"Take the lantern again, Willy, " Ralph said, getting up. Then helifted the body on to the back of the mare that stood quietly by theirside. 

As he did so a paper slipped away from the breast of the dead man. 

Willy picked it up, and seeing "Ralph Ray" written on the back of it, he handed it to his brother, who thrust it into a pocket unread. 

Then the two walked back, their dread burden between them. 

CHAPTER VI. THE HOUSE ON THE MOSS. 

When the dawn of another day rose over Shoulthwaite, a great silencehad fallen on the old house on the moss. The man who had made it whatit was--the man who had been its vital spirit--slept his last deepsleep in the bedroom known as the kitchen loft. Throughout forty yearshis had been the voice first heard in that mountain home when theearliest gleams of morning struggled through the deep recesses of thelow mullioned windows. Perhaps on the day following market day hesometimes lay an hour longer; but his stern rule of life spared none, and himself least of all. If at sixty his powerful limbs were lesssupple than of old, if his Jove-like head with its flowing beard hadbecome tipped with the hoar frost, he had relaxed nothing of his rigidself-government on that account. When the clock in the kitchen hadstruck ten at night, Angus had risen up, whatever his occupation, whatever his company, and retired to rest. And the day had hardlydawned when he was astir in the morning, rousing first the men andnext the women of his household. Every one had waited for his call. There had been no sound more familiar than that of his firm footstep, followed by the occasional creak of the old timbers, breaking theearly stillness. That footstep would be heard no more. 

Dame Ray sat in a chair before the kitchen fire. She had sat there thewhole night through, moaning sometimes, but speaking hardly at all. Sleep had not come near her, yet she scarcely seemed to be awake. Lastnight's shock had more than half shattered her senses, but it hadflashed upon her mind a vision of her whole life. Only half consciousof what was going on about her, she saw vividly as in a glass theincidents of those bygone years, that had lain so long unremembered. The little cottage under Castenand; her old father playing his fiddlein the quiet of a summer evening; herself, a fresh young maiden, busied about him with a hundred tender cares; then a great sorrow anda dead waste of silence, --all this appeared to belong to some earlierexistence. And then the sun had seemed to rise on a fuller life thatcame later. A holy change had come over her, and to her transfiguredfeeling the world looked different. But that bright sun had set now, and all around was gloom. Slowly she swayed herself to and fro hourafter hour in her chair, as one by one these memories came back toher--came, and went, and came again. 

On Rotha the care of the household had fallen. The young girl had satlong by the old dame overnight, holding her hand and speaking softlyto her between the outbursts of her own grief. She had whisperedsomething about brave sons who would yet be her great stay, and thenthe comforter herself had needed comfort and her voice of solace hadbeen stilled. When the daylight came in at the covered windows, Rotharose up unrefreshed; but with a resolute heart she set herself to theduties that had dropped so unexpectedly upon her. She put thespinning-wheel into the neuk window-stand and the woo-wheel againstthe wall. They would not be wanted now. She cleared the sconce andtook down the flitches that hung from the rannel-tree to dry. Then shecooked the early breakfast of oatmeal porridge, and took the milk thatthe boy brought from the cow shed and put it into the dishes that shehad placed on the long oak table which stretched across the kitchen. 

Willy Ray had been coming and going most of the night from the kitchento his own room--a little carpeted closet of a bedroom that went outfrom the first landing on the stairs, and looked up to the ghyll atthe back. The wee place was more than his sleeping-room; he had hisbooks there, but he had neither slept nor read that night. He wanderedabout aimlessly, with the eyes of one walking in his sleep, breakingout sometimes into a little hysterical scream, followed by a shudder, and then a sudden disappearance. Death had come to him for the firsttime, and in a fearful guise. Its visible presence appalled him. Hewas as feeble as a child now. He was ready to lean on the first stronghuman arm that offered; and though Rotha understood but vaguely thetroubles that beset his mind, her quick instinct found a sure way tothose that lay heavy at his heart. She comforted him with what goodwords she could summon, and he came again and again to her with hisodd fancies and his recollections of the poor feeble philosophy whichhe had gleaned from books. The look in the eyes of this simple girland the touch of her hand made death less fearsome than anythingbesides. Willy seemed to lean on Rotha, and she on her part appearedto grow stronger as she felt this. 

Ralph had gone to bed much as usual the night before--after he hadborne upstairs what lay there. He was not seen again until morning, and when he came down and stood for a moment over his mother's chairas she sat gazing steadfastly into the fire, Rotha was stooping overthe pan, with the porridge thivle in her hand. She looked up into hisface, while his hand rested with a speechless sympathy on his mother'sarm, and she thought that, mingled with a softened sorrow, there wassomething like hope there. The sadness of last night was neither inhis face nor in his voice. He was even quieter than usual, but heappeared to have grown older in the few hours that had intervened. Nevertheless, he went through his ordinary morning's work about thehomestead with the air of one whose mind was with him in what he did. After breakfast he took his staff out of the corner and set out forthe hills, his dog beside him. 

During the day, Rotha, with such neighborly help as it was the customto tender, did all the little offices incident to the situation. Shewent in and out of the chamber of the dead, not without awe, butwithout fear. She had only once before looked on death, or, if she hadseen it twice before this day, her first sight of it was long ago, inthat old time of which memory scarcely held a record, when she wascarried in her father's arms into a darkened room like this and heldfor a moment over the white face that she knew to be the face of hermother. But, unused as she had been to scenes made solemn by death, she appeared to know her part in this one. 

Intelligence of the disaster that had fallen on the household atShoulthwaite Moss was not long in circulating through Wythburn. Oneafter another, the shepherds and their wives called in, and were takento the silent room upstairs. Some offered such rude comfort as theirsympathetic hearts but not too fecund intellects could devise, and asoften as not it was sorry comfort enough. Some stood all butspeechless, only gasping out at intervals, "Deary me. " Others, again, seemed afflicted with what old Matthew Branthwaite called "doddering"and a fit of the "gapes. "

It was towards nightfall when Matthew himself came to Shoulthwaite. "I'm the dame's auldest neighbor, " he had said at the Red Lion thatafternoon, when the event of the night previous had been discussed. "It's nobbut reet 'at I should gang alang to her this awesome day. She'll be glad of the neighborhood of an auld friend's crack. " Theywere at their evening meal of sweet broth when Matthew's knock came tothe door, followed, without much interval, by his somewhat gauntfigure on the threshold. 

"Come your ways in, " said Mrs. Ray. "And how fend you, Mattha?"

"For mysel', I's gayly. Are ye middlin' weel?" the old man said. 

"I'm a lang way better, but I'm going yon way too. It's far away thebainer way for me now. " And Mrs. Ray put her apron to her eyes. 

"Ye'll na boune yit, Mary, " said Matthew. "Ye'll na boune yon way formony a lang year yit. So dunnet ye beurt, Mary. "

Mattha's blubbering tones somewhat discredited his stoical advice. 

Rotha had taken down a cup, and put the old man to sit between herselfand Willy, facing Mrs. Ray. 

"I met Ralph in the morning part, " said Matthew; "he telt me all theins and outs aboot it. I reckon he were going to the kirk garth abootthe berryin'. "

Mrs. Ray raised her apron to her eyes again. Willy got up and left theroom. He at least was tortured by this kind of comfort. 

"He's of the bettermer sort, _he_ is, " said Matthew with a motion ofhis head towards the door at which Willy had gone out. "He taks itbad, does Willy. Ralph was chapfallen a laal bit, but not ower much. Deary me, but ye've gat all sorts of sons though you've nobbut two. Weel, weel, " he added, as though reconciling himself to Willy'stenderness and Ralph's hardness of heart, "if there were na fellsthere wad be na dales. "

Matthew had turned over his cup to denote that his meal was finished. The dame rose and resumed her seat by the fire. During the day she hadbeen more cheerful, but with the return of the night she grew againsilent, and rocked herself in her chair. 

"It's just t'edge o' dark, lass, " said Matthew to Rotha while fillinghis pipe. "Wilt thoo fetch the cannels?"

The candles were brought, and the old man lit his pipe from one ofthem and sat down with Mrs. Ray before the fire. 

"Dus'ta mind when Angus coomt first to these parts?" he said. "_I_ doreet weel. I can a' but fancy I see him now at the manor'al court atDeer Garth Bottom. What a man he was, to be sure! Ralph's nobbut a bitboy to what his father was then. Folks say father and son are as likeas peas, but nowt of the sort. Ye could nivver hev matched Angus inyon days for limb and wind. Na, nor sin' nowther. And there was yan o'the lasses frae Castenand had set een on Angus, but she nivver letwit. As bonny a lass as there was in the country side, she was. Theysay beauty withoot bounty's but bauch, but she was good a' roond. Shewas greetly thought on. Dus'ta mind I was amang the lads that wentahint her--I was, mysel'. But she wad hev nowt wi' me; she trysted widAngus; so I went back home and broke the click reel of my new loomstraight away. And it's parlish odd I've not lived marraless iversin'. "

This reminiscence of his early and all but only love adventure seemedto touch a sensitive place in the old man's nature, and he pulled fora time more vigorously at his pipe. 

Mrs. Ray Still sat gazing into the fire, hardly heeding the oldweaver's garrulity, and letting him chatter on as he pleased. Occasionally she would look anxiously over her shoulder to ask Rothaif Ralph had got back, and on receiving answer that he had not yetbeen seen she would resume her position, and, with an absent look inher eyes, gaze back into the fire. When a dog's bark would be heard inthe distance above the sound of the wind, she would break intoconsciousness afresh, and bid Rotha prepare the supper. But stillRalph did not come. Where could he be?

It was growing late when Matthew got up to go. He had tried his bestto comfort his old neighbor in her sorrow. He had used up all his sawsand proverbs that were in the remotest degree appropriate to theoccasion, and he had thrown in a few that were not remarkable forappositeness or compatibility. All alike had passed by unheeded. Thedame had taken the good will for the good deed, and had not looked thegift-horses too closely in the mouth. 

"Good night, Mattha Branthet, " she said, in answer to his good by;"good night, and God bless thee. "

Matthew had opened the door, and was looking out preparatory to hisfinal leavetaking. 

"The sky's over-kessen to-neet, " he said. "There's na moon yit, andt'wind's high as iver. Good neet, Mary; it's like ye'll be a' thrangeneuf to-morrow wi' the feast for the berryin', and it's like eneuf mamistress and laal Liza will be ower at the windin'. "

The dame sighed audibly. 

"And keep up a blithe heart, Mary. Remember, he that has gude cropsmay thole some thistles. "

When the door had closed behind the weaver, Willy came back to thekitchen from his little room. 

"Ralph not home yet?" he said, addressing Rotha. 

"Not yet, " the girl answered, trying vainly to conceal someuneasiness. 

"I wonder what Robbie Anderson wanted with him? He was here twice, youknow, in the morning. And the schoolmaster--what could little Monseyhave to say that he looked so eager? It is not his way. "

"Be sure it was nothing out of the common, " said Rotha. "What happenedlast night makes us all so nervous. "

"True; but there was a strange look about both of them--at least Ithought so, though I didn't heed it then. They say misfortunes nevercome singly. I wish Ralph were home. "

Mrs. Ray had risen from her seat at the fire, and was placing one ofthe candles upon a small table that stood before the neuk window. 

With her back to the old dame, Rotha put her finger on her lip as amotion to Willy to say no more. 

CHAPTER VII. SIM'S CAVE. 

When Ralph retired to his own room on the night of his father's deaththere lay a heavier burden at his heart than even that dreadoccurrence could lodge there. To such a man as he was, death itselfwas not so terrible but that many passions could conquer the fear ofit. As for his father, he had not tasted death; he had not seen it;his death was but a word; and the grave was not deep. No, the gravewas not deep. Ah, what sting lay in that thought!--what fresh stinglay there!

Ralph called up again the expression on the face of Simeon Stagg as heasked him in the inn that night (how long ago it seemed!) to give thename of the man who had murdered Wilson. "It's your duty in the sightof Heaven, " he had said; "would you tarnish the child's name with theguilt laid on the father's?" Then there had come into Sim's eyessomething that gave a meaning to his earlier words, "Ralph, you don'tknow what you ask. " Ah, did he not know now but too well? Ralph walkedacross the room with a sense as of a great burden of guilt weighinghim down. The grave was not deep--oh, would it were, would it were!Would that the grave were the end of all! But no, it was as the oldbook said: when one dies, those who survive ask what he has leftbehind; the angel who bends above him asks what he has sent before. And the father who had borne him in his arms--whom he had borne--whathad he sent before?

Ralph tramped heavily to and fro. His dog slept on the mat outside hisdoor, and, unused to such continued sounds within, began to scrape andgrowl. 

After all, there was no certain evidence yet. To-morrow morning hewould go up the fell and see Sim alone. He must know the truth. If itconcerned him as closely as he divined, the occasion to conceal it wassurely gone by with this night's event. Then Robbie Anderson, --whatdid he mean? Ralph recalled some dim memory of the young dalesmanasking about his father. Robbie was kind to Sim, too, when the othersshunned him. What did it all mean?

With a heavy heart Ralph began to undress. He had unbelted himself andthrown off his jerkin, when he thought of the paper that had fallenfrom his father's open breast as he lifted him on to the mare. Whatwas it? Yes, there it was in his pocket, and with a feverish anxietyRalph opened it. 

Had he clung to any hope that the black cloud that appeared to behanging over him would not, after all, envelop him? Alas! that lastvestige of hope must leave him. The paper was a warrant for his ownarrest on a charge of treason. It had been issued at the court of thehigh constable at Carlisle, and set forth that Ralph Ray had conspiredto subvert the government of his sovereign while a captain in thetrained bands of the rebel army of the "late usurper. " It was signedand countersigned, and was marked for the service of James Wilson, King's agent. It was dated too; yes, two days before Wilson's death. 

All was over now; this was the beginning of the end; the shadow hadfallen. By that paradox of nature which makes disaster itself lesshard to bear than the apprehension of disaster, Ralph felt relievedwhen he knew the worst. There was much of the mystery stillunexplained, but the morrow would reveal it; and Ralph lay down tosleep, and rose at daybreak, not with a lighter, but with an easierheart. 

When he took up his shepherd's staff that morning, he turned towardsFornside Fell. Rising out of the Vale of Wanthwaite, the fell halffaced the purple heights of Blencathra. It was brant from side toside, and as rugged as steep. Ralph did not ascend the screes, outwent up by Castle Rock, and walked northwards among the huge bowlders. The frost lay on the loose fragments of rock, and made a firm butperilous causeway. The sun was shining feebly and glinting over thefrost. It had sparkled among the icicles that hung in Styx Ghyll as hepassed, and the ravine had been hard to cross. The hardy black sheepof the mountains bleated in the cold from unseen places, and the windcarried their call away until it died off into a moan. 

When Ralph got well within the shadow cast on to the fell from theprotruding head of the Castle Rock, he paused and looked about him. Yes, he was somewhat too high. He began to descend. The rock's headsheltered him from the wind now, and in the silence he could hear thethud of a pick or hammer, and then the indistinct murmur of a man'svoice singing. It was Sim's voice; and here was Sim's cave. It was acleft in the side of the mountain, high enough and broad enough for aman to pass in. Great bowlders stood above and about it. 

The sun could never shine into it. A huge rock stood alone andapparently unsupported near its mouth, as though aeons long gone by aniceberg had perched it there. The dog would have bounded in upon Simwhere he sat and sang at his work, but Ralph checked him with a look. Inexpressibly eerie sounded the half-buried voice of the singer inthat Solitary place. The weird ditty suited well with both. 

 She lean'd her head against a thorn, _The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa'_; And there she has her young babe born, _And the lyon shall be lord of a'_. 

 She's howket a grave by the light o' the moon, _The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa'_; And there she's buried her sweet babe in, _And the lyon shall be lord of a'_. 

The singer stopped, as though conscious of the presence of a listener, and looking up from where he sat on a round block of timber, cuttingup a similar block into firewood, he saw Ralph Ray leaning on hisstaff near the cave's mouth. He had already heard of the sorrow thathad fallen on the household at Shoulthwaite. With an unspeakable lookof sympathy in his wild, timid eyes, as though some impulse ofaffection urged him to throw his arms about Ralph and embrace him, while some sense of shame impelled him to kneel at his feet, Simapproached him, and appeared to make an effort to speak. But he couldsay nothing. Ralph understood his silence and was grateful for it. They went into the cave, and sat down in the dusk. 

"You can tell me all about it, now, " Ralph said, without preamble ofany sort, for each knew well what lay closest at the other's heart. "He is gone now, and we are here together, with none but ourselves tohear. "

"I knew you must know it one day, " Sim said, "but I tried hard to hideit from you--I did, believe me, I tried hard--I tried, but it was notto be. "

"It is best so, " Ralph answered; "you must not bear the burden ofguilt that is not your own. "

"I'm no better than guilty myself, " said Sim. "I don't reckon myselfinnocent; not I. No, I don't reckon myself innocent. "

"I think I understand you, Sim; but you were not guilty of the deed?"

"No, but I might have been--I might but for an accident--the accidentof a moment; but I've thought sometimes that the crime is not in thedeed, but the intention. No, Ralph, I _am_ the guilty man, after all:your father had never thought of the crime, not he, but I had broodedover it. "

"Did you go out that night intending to do it?" Ralph said. 

"Yes; at least I think I did, but I don't feel sure; my mind was in abroil; I hardly knew what I meant to do. If Wilson had told me as Imet him in the road--as I intended to meet him--that he had come backto do what he had threatened to do so often--then--yes, _then_, I musthave done it--I _must_. "

"What had he threatened?" Ralph asked, but there was no note ofinquiry in his voice. "Whom did it concern?"

"It concerned yourself, Ralph, " said Sim, turning his head aside. "Butno matter about that, " he added. "It's over now, it is. "

Ralph drew out of his pocket the paper that had fallen from hisfather's breast. 

"Is this what you mean?" he said, handing it to Sim. 

Sim carried it to the light to read it. Returning to where Ralph sat, he cried in a shrill voice, --

"Then he _had_ come back to do it. O God, why should it be murder tokill a scoundrel?"

"Did you know nothing of this until now?"

"Nothing. Wilson threatened it, as I say; he told me he'd hang you onthe nearest gibbet, he did--you who'd saved his life--leastways, sothey say--the barren-hearted monster!"

"It's ill-luck to serve a bad man, Sim. Well?"

"I never quite thought he'd do it; no, I never did quite think it. Whyis it not a good deed to kill a bad man?"

"How did it happen, Sim?" said Ralph. 

"I hardly know--that's the truth. You mind well enough it was the daythat Abraham Coward, my landlord, called for his rent. It was the daythe poor woman and her two wee barns took shelter with me. You lookedin on me that night, you remember. Well, when you left me--do yourecollect _how_?"

"Yes, Sim. "

"My heart was fair maizlet before, but that--that--kiss infected mybrain. I must have been mad, Ralph, that's the fact, when I thought ofwhat the man meant to do to the only friend I had left in theworld--my own friend and my poor little girl's. I went out to thelanes and wandered about. It was very dark. Suddenly the awful thoughtcame back upon me, it did. I was standing at the crossways, where theroad goes off to Gaskarth. I knew Wilson must come by that road. Something commanded me to walk on. I had been halting, but now adreadful force compelled me to go--ay, compelled me. I don't know whatit was, but it seemed as if I'd no power against it, none. It stifledall my scruples, all of them, and I ran--yes, ran. But I was weak, andhad to stop for breath. My heart was beating loud, and I pressed myhand hard upon it as I leaned against the wall of the old bridgeyonder. It went thump, thump. Then I could hear him coming. I knew hisstep. He was not far off, but I couldn't stir; no, not stir. My breathseemed all to leave me when I moved. He was coming closer, he was, andin the distance beyont him I could hear the clatter of a horse's feeton the road. The man on the horse was far off, but he galloped, hegalloped. It must be done now, I thought; now or not at all. I--Ipicked up a stone that lay near, I did, and tried to go forward, butfell back, back. I was powerless. That weakness was agony, it was. Wilson had not reached the spot where I stood when the man on thehorse had overtaken him. I heard him speak as the man rode past. ThenI saw it was your father, and that he turned back. There were highwords on his side, and I could hear Wilson's bitter laugh--yourecollect that laugh?"

"Yes, yes; well?"

"In a moment Angus had jumped from the horse's back--and then I hearda thud--and that's all. "

"Is that all you know?"

"Not all; no, not all, neither. Your father had got up into the saddlein an instant, and I labored out into the middle of the road. He sawme and stopped. 'Ye've earned nowt of late, ' he said; 'tak this, myman, and gae off and pay your rent. ' Then he put some money into myhand from his purse and galloped on. I thought he'd killed Wilson, andI crept along to look at the dead man. I couldn't find him at first, and groped about in the darkness till my hand touched his face. Then Ithought he was alive, I did. The touch flayt me, and I fled away--Idon't know how. Ralph, I saw the mark of my hand on his face when theydrew me up to it next day in the bedroom of the inn. That night I paidmy rent with your father's money, and then I went home. "

"It was my father's money, then--not Wilson's?" said Ralph. 

"It was as I say, " Sim answered, as though hurt by the implication. 

Ralph put his hand on Sim's shoulder. Self-condemned, this poor man'sconscience was already a whirlpool that drew everything to itself. 

"Tell me, Sim--that is, if you can--tell me how you came to suspectWilson of these dealings. "

As he said this Ralph tapped with his fingers the warrant which Simhad returned to him. 

"By finding that James Wilson was not his name. "

"So you found that, did you; how?"

"It was Mother Garth's doings, not mine, " said Sim. 

"What did she tell you?"

"Nothing; that is, nothing about Wilson going by a false name. No; Ifound that out for myself, though it was all through her that I foundit. "

"You knew it all that bad night in Martinmas, did you not?"

"That's true enough, Ralph. The old woman, she came one night andbroke open Wilson's trunk, and carried off some papers--leastways onepaper. "

"You don't know what it was?"

"No. It was in one of Wilson's bouts away at--at Gaskarth, so he said. Rotha was at the Moss: she hadn't come home for the night. I hadworked till the darknin', and my eyes were heavy, they were, and thenI had gone into the lanes. The night came on fast, and when I turnedback I heard men singing and laughing as they came along towards me. "

"Some topers from the Red Lion, that was all?"

"Yes, that was all. I jumped the dike and crossed the fields insteadof taking the road. As I came by Fornside I saw that there was a lightin the little room looking to the back. It was Wilson's room; he wouldhave no other. I thought he had got back, and I crept up--I don't knowwhy--I crept up to the window and looked in. It was not Wilson who wasthere. It was Mrs. Garth. She had the old man's trunk open, and wasrummaging among some papers at the bottom of it. "

"Did you go in to her?"

"I was afeart of the woman, Ralph; but I did go in, dotherin' andstammerin'. "

"What did she say?"

"She was looking close at a paper as I came upon her. She started alittle, but when she saw who it was she bashed down the lid of thetrunk and brushed past me, with the paper in her hand. 'You can tellhim, if you like, that I have been here. ' That was all she said, andbefore I had turned about she had gone, she had. What was that paper, Ralph; do you know?"

"Perhaps time will tell, perhaps not. "

"There was something afoot atween those two; what was it?"

"Can't you guess? You discovered his name. "

"Wilson Garth, that was it. That was the name I found on his papers. Yes, I opened the trunk and looked at them when the woman had gone;yes, I did that. "

"You remember how she came to these parts? That was before my time ofremembrance, but not before yours, Sim. "

"I think they said she'd wedded a waistrel on the Borders. "

"Did they ever say the man was dead?"

"No, I can't mind that they ever did. I can't mind it. He had beatenher and soured her into the witch that she is now, and then she hadrun away frae him with her little one, Joe that now is. That was whatthey said, as I mind it. "

"Two and two are easily put together, Sim. Wilson Garth, not JamesWilson, was the man's name. "

"And he was Mrs. Garth's husband and the father of Joe?"

"The same, I think. "

Sim seemed to stagger under the shock of a discovery that had beenslow to dawn upon him. 

"How did it come, Ralph, that you brought him here when you came homefrom the wars? Everything seems, someways, to hang on that. "

"Everything; perhaps even this last disaster of all. " Ralph passed hisfingers through his hair, and then his palm across his brow. Simobserved a change in his friend's manner. 

"It was wrong of me to say that, it was, " he said. "I don't know thatit's true, either. But tell me how it came about. "

"It's a short story, old friend, and easily told, though it has neverbeen told till now. I had done the man some service at Carlisle. "

"Saved his life, so they say. "

"It was a good turn, truly, but I had done it--at least, the firstpart of it--unawares. But that's _not_ a short story. "

"Tell me, Ralph. "

"It's dead and done with, like the man himself. What remains is notdead, and cannot soon be done with. Some of us must meet it face toface even yet. Wilson--that was his name in those days--was a Royalistwhen I encountered him. What he had been before, God knows. At amoment of peril he took his life at the hands of a Roundhead. He hadbeen guilty of treachery to the Royalists, and he was afraid to returnto his friends. I understood his position and sheltered him. WhenCarlisle fell to us he clung closer to me, and when the campaign wasover he prayed to be permitted to follow me to these parts. I yieldedto him reluctantly. I distrusted him, but I took his anxiety to bewith me for gratitude, as he said it was. It was not that, Sim. "

"Was it fear? Was he afeart of being hanged by friends or foes? Hadn'the been a taistrel to both?"

"Partly fear, but partly greed, and partly revenge. He was hardly aweek at Shoulthwaite before I guessed his secret--I couldn't be blindto that. When he married his young wife on the Borders, folks didn'tuse to call her a witch. She had a little fortune coming to her oneday, and when she fled the prospect of it was lost to her husband. Wilson was in no hurry to recover her while she was poor-a vagrantwoman with his child at her breast. The sense of his rights as ahusband became keener a little later. Do you remember the time whenyoung Joe Garth set himself up in the smithy yonder?"

"I do, " said Sim; "it was the time of the war. The neighbors told ofsome maiden aunt, an old crone like herself, who had left Joe's motheraboon a hundred pound. "

"Wilson knew that much better than our neighbors. He knew, too, wherehis wife had hidden herself, as she thought, though it had served histurn to seem ignorant of it until then. Sim, he used _me_ to get toWythburn. "

"Teush!"

"Once here, it was not long before he had made his wife aware of hiscoming. I had kept an eye on him, and I knew his movements. I saw thathe meant to ruin the Garths, mother and son, to strip them and leavethem destitute. I determined that he should not do it. I felt thatmine was the blame that he was here to molest them. 'Tamper withthem, ' I said, 'show once more by word or look that you know anythingof them, and I'll hand you over as a traitor to the nearest sheriff. '"

"Why didn't you do it anyhow, why didn't you?" said Sim eagerly. 

"That would have been unwise. He now hated me for defeating hisdesigns. 

"You had saved his life. "

"He hated me none the less for that. There was only one way now toserve either the Garths or myself, and that was to keep the man inhand. I neither sent him away nor let him go. "

"You were more than a match for him to the last, " said Sim, "and yousaved me and my lass from him too. But what about Joe Garth and hisold mother? They don't look over-thankful to you, they don't. "

"They think that I brought Wilson back to torment them. No words ofmine would upset the notion. I'm sorry for that, but leave suchmistakes for time to set right. And when the truth comes in such acase it comes to some purpose. "

"Aye, when it comes--_when_ it comes. "

Sim spoke in an undertone, and as though to himself. 

"It's long in the coming sometimes, it is. "

"It seems long, truly. " The dalesman had caught Sim's drift, and withhis old trick of manner, more expressive than his words, he had puthis hand on Sim's arm. 

"And now there is but one chance that has made it quite worth thewhile that we should have talked frankly on the subject, you and I, and that is the chance that others may come to do what Wilson tried todo. The authorities who issued this warrant will hardly forget thatthey issued it. There was a stranger here the day after the inquest. Ithink I know what he was. "

Sim shuddered perceptibly. 

"He went away then, but we'll see him once more, depend upon it. "

"Is it true, as Wilson said, that Oliver's men are like to be taken?"

"There's a spy in every village, so they say, and blank warrants, dulysigned, in every sheriff's court, ready to be filled in with any namethat malice may suggest. These men mean that Puritanism shall berooted out of England. We cannot be too well prepared. "

"I wish I could save you, Ralph; leastways, I wish it were myselfinstead, I do. "

"You thought to save me, old friend, when you went out to meet Wilsonthat night three months ago. My father, too, he thought to save mewhen he did what he did. You were both rash, both wrong. You could nothave helped me at all in that way. Poor father! How little he hashelped me, Heaven knows--Heaven alone knows--yet. "

Ralph drew his hand across his eyes. 

CHAPTER VIII. ROBBIE'S REDEMPTION. 

Sim accompanied Ralph half-way down the hill when he rose to go. Robbie Anderson could be seen hastening towards them. His mission mustbe with Ralph, so Sim went back. 

"I've been to Shoulthwaite to look for you, " said Robbie. "They toldme you'd taken the hills for it, so I followed on. "

"You look troubled, my lad, " said Ralph; "has anything happened toyou?"

"No, Ralph, but something may happen to you if you don't heed me whatI say. "

"Nothing that will trouble me much, Robbie--nothing of that kind canhappen now. "

"Yon gommarel of a Joe Garth, the blacksmith, has never forgotten thethrashing you gave him years ago for killing your dog--Laddie's motherthat was. "

"No, he'll never forgive me; but what of that? I've not looked for hisforgiveness. "

"But, I'm afeared, Ralph, he means to pay you back more than four tothe quarter. Do you know he has spies lodging with him? They've comedown here to take you off. Joe has been at the Red Lion thismorning--drunk, early as it is. He blurted it out about the spies, soI ran off to find you. "

"It isn't Joe that has done the mischief, my lad, though the spies, orwhatever they are, may pay him to play underspy while it serves theirturn. "

"Joe or not Joe, they mean to take you the first chance. Folks sayeverything has got upside down with the laws and the country now thatthe great man himself is dead. Hadn't you best get off somewhere?

"It was good of you, Robbie, to warn me; but I can't leave home yet;my father must be buried, you know. "

"Ah!" said Robbie in an altered tone, "poor Angus!"

Ralph looked closely at his companion, and thought of Robbie'squestion last night in the inn. 

"Tell me, " he said, glancing searchingly into Robbie's eyes, "did youknow anything about old Wilson's death?"

The young dalesman seemed abashed. He dropped his head, and appearedunable to look up. 

"Tell me, Robbie; I know much already. "

"I took the money, " said the young man; "I took it, but I threw itinto the beck the minute after. "

"How was it, lad? Let me know. "

Robbie was still standing, with his head down, pawing the ground as hesaid, --

"I'd been drinking hard--you know that. I was drunk yon night, and Ihadn't a penny in my pouch. On my way home from the inn I lay down inthe dike and fell asleep. I was awakened by the voices of two menquarrelling. You know who they were. Old Wilson was waving a paperover his head and laughing and sneering. Then the other snatched itaway. At that Wilson swore a dreadful oath, and flung himself on--theother. It was all over in a moment. He'd given the little waistrel thecross-buttock, and felled him on his head. I saw the other ride off, and I saw Simeon Stagg. When all was still, I crept out and tookWilson's money--yes, I took it; but I flung it into the next beck. Forthe moment, when I touched him I thought he was alive. I've not beendrinking hard since then, Ralph; no, nor never will again. "

"Ey, you'll do better than that, Robbie. "

Ralph said no more. There was a long silence between the two men, until Robbie, unable to support it any longer, broke in again with, "Itook it, but I flung it into the next beck. "

The poor fellow seemed determined to dwell upon the latter fact as insome measure an extenuation of his offence. In his silent hours ofremorse he had cherished it as one atoning circumstance. It had beenthe first fruits of a sudden resolution of reform. Sobered by thesense of what part he had played in crime, the money that had lain inhis hand was a witness against him; and when he had flung it away hehad only the haunting memory left of what he would have done ineffect, but had, in fact, done only in name. 

"Why did you not say this at the inquest?" asked Ralph. "You mighthave cleared Simeon Stagg. Was it because you must have accused myfather?"

"I can't say it was that. I felt guilty myself. I felt as if half thecrime had been mine. "

There was another pause. 

"Robbie, " Ralph said at length, "would you, if I wished it, say nomore about all this?"

"I've said nothing till now, and I need say nothing more. "

"Sim will be as silent--if I ask him. There is my poor mother, my lad;she can't live long, and why should she be stricken down? Her dear oldhead is bowed low enough already. "

"I promise you, Ralph, " said Robbie. He had turned half aside, and wasspeaking falteringly. He remembered one whose head had been bowedlower still--one whose heart had been sick for his own misdeeds, andnow the grass was over her. 

"Then that is agreed. "

"Ralph, there's something I should have said before, but I was afearedto say it. Who would have believed the word of a drunkard? That's whatI was, God forgive me! Besides, it would have done no good to say it, that I can see, and most likely some harm. "

"What was it?"

"Didn't they say they found Wilson lying fifty yards below the river?"

"They did; fifty yards to the south of the bridge. "

"It was as far to the north that I left him. I'm sure of it. I wassobered by what happened. I could swear it in heaven, Ralph. It wasfull fifty yards on the down side of the bridge from the smithy. "

"Think again, my lad; it's a serious thing that you say. "

"I've thought of it too much. It has tormented me day and night. There's no use in trying to persuade myself I must be wrong. Fiftyyards on the down side of the beck from the smithy--that was theplace, Ralph. "

The dalesman looked grave. Then a light crossed his face as if a waveof hope had passed through him. Sim had said he was leaning againstthe bridge. All that Angus could have done must have been done to thenorth of it. Was it possible, after all, that Angus had not killedWilson by that fall?

"You say that for the moment, when you touched him, you thought Wilsonwas not dead?"

"It's true, I thought so. "

Sim had thought the same. 

"Did you see any one else that night?"

"No. "

"Nor hear other footsteps?"

"No, none but my own at last--none. "

It was no clew. Unconsciously Ralph put his hand to his breast andtouched the paper that he had placed there. No, there was no hope. Theshadow that had fallen had fallen forever. 

"Perhaps the man recovered enough to walk a hundred yards, and thenfell dead. Perhaps he had struggled to reach home?"

"He would be going the wrong way for that, Ralph. "

"True, true; it's very strange, very, if it is as you say. He wasfifty yards beyond the smithy--north of it?"

"He was. "

The dalesmen walked on. They had got down into the road, when thelittle schoolmaster ran up against them almost before he had beenseen. 

"Oh, here you are, are you?" he gasped. 

"Are they coming?" said Robbie Anderson, jumping on to the turf hedgeto get a wider view. 

"That they are. "

The little man had dropped down on to a stone, and was mopping hisforehead. When he had recovered his breath, he said, --

"I say, Monsieur the Gladiator, why didn't you kill when you wereabout it? I say, why didn't you kill?" and Monsey held his thumbsdown, as he looked in Ralph's face. 

"Kill whom?" said Ralph. He could not help laughing at theschoolmaster's ludicrous figure and gesture. 

"Why, that Garth--a bad garth--a kirk-garth--a kirk-warner's garth-adevil's garth--_Joe_ Garth?"

"I can't see them, " said Robbie, and he jumped down again into theroad. 

"Oh, but you will, you will, " said Monsey; and stretching his arm outtowards Ralph with a frantic gesture, he cried, "You fly, fly, fly, fly!"

"Allow me to point out to you, " observed Ralph, smiling, "that I donot at all fly, nor shall I know why I should not remain where I amuntil you tell me. "

"Then know that your life's not worth a pin's fee if you remain hereto be taken. Oh, that Garth--that devil's garth--that--that--_Joe_Garth!"

There was clearly no epithet that suited better with Monsey's moodthan the said monster's proper name. 

"Friends, " said Ralph, more seriously, "it's clear I can't leavebefore I see my father buried, and it's just as clear I can't see himburied if I stay. With your help I may do both--that is, seem to doboth. "

"How? how? unfold--I can interpret you no conundrums, " said Monsey. "To go, and yet not to go, that is the question. "

"Can I help you?" said Robbie with the simplicity of earnestness. 

"Go back, schoolmaster, to the Lion. "

"I know it--I've been there before--well?"

"Say, if your conscience will let you--I know how tender it is--sayyou saw me go over Lauvellen in the direction of Fairfield. Say thisquietly--say it to old Matthew in a whisper and as a secret; that willbe enough. "

"I've shared with that patriarch some secrets before now, and they'vebeen common property in an hour--common as the mushrooms on thecommon--common as his common saws--common--"

"Robbie, the burial will take place the day after to-morrow, at threein the afternoon, at the kirk-garth--"

"Oh, that Garth, --that devil's garth--that Joe--"

"At the kirk-garth at Gosforth, " continued Ralph. "Go round the cityand the dale, and bid every master and mistress within the warning toShoulthwaite Moss at nine o'clock in the morning. Be there yourself asthe representative of the family, and see all our old customsobserved. The kirk-garth is twenty miles away, across rugged mountaincountry, and you must follow the public pass. "

"Styehead Pass?"

Ralph nodded assent. "Start away at eleven o'clock; take the old mareto bear the body; let the boy ride the young horse, and chain him tothe mare at the bottom of the big pass. These men, these spies, theseconstables, whatever they may be, will lie in wait for me about thehouse that morning. If they don't find me at my father's funeralthey'll then believe that I must have gone. Do _you_ hold the mare'shead, Robbie--mind that. When you get to the top of the pass, perhapssome one will relieve you--perhaps so, perhaps not. You understand?"

"I do. "

"Let nothing interfere with this plan as I give it you. If you fail inany single particular, all may be lost. "

"I'll let nothing interfere. But what of Willy? What if he object?

"Tell him these are my wishes--he'll yield to that. "

There was a moment's silence. 

"Robbie, that was a noble resolve you told me of; and you can keep it, can you not?"

"I can--God help me. "

"Keep it the day after to-morrow--you remember our customs, sometimesmore honored, you know, in the breach than the observance--you canhold to your resolve that day; you _must_ hold to it, for everythinghangs on it. It is a terrible hazard. "

Robbie put his hand in Ralph's, and the two stalwart dalesmen lookedsteadily each into the other's face. There was a dauntless spirit ofresolution in the eyes of the younger man. His resolve wasirrevocable. His crime had saved him. 

"That's enough, " said Ralph. He was satisfied. 

"Why, you sleep--you sleep, " cried the little schoolmaster. During thepreceding conversation he had been capering to and fro in the road, leaping on to the hedge, leaping back again, and putting his hands tothe sides of his eyes to shut away the wind that came from behind him, while he looked out for the expected enemy. 

"You sleep--you sleep--that Garth--that devil's garth--that worse thankirk-garth--that--that--!"

"And now we part, " said Ralph, "for the present. Good by, both!" Andhe turned to go back the way he came. 

Monsey and Robbie had gone a few paces in the other direction, whenthe little schoolmaster stopped, and, turning round, cried in a loudvoice, "O yes, I know it--the Lion. I've been there before. I'llwhisper Father Matthew that you've gone--"

Robbie had put his arm on Monsey's shoulder and swung him round, andRalph heard no more. 

CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW OF THE CRIME. 

 But yester-night I prayed aloud In anguish and in agony. Coleridge. 

The night was far advanced, and yet Ralph had not returned toShoulthwaite. It was three hours since Matthew Branthwaite had leftthe Moss. Mrs. Ray still sat before the turf fire and gazed into it insilence. Rotha was by her side, and Willy lay on the settle drawn upto the hearth. All listened for the sound of footsteps that did notcome. 

The old clock ticked out louder and more loud; the cricket's measuredchirp seemed to grow more painfully audible; the wind whistled throughthe leafless boughs without, and in the lulls of the abating storm thelow rumble of the ghyll could be heard within. What kept Ralph away?It was no unusual thing for him to be abroad from dawn to dusk, butthe fingers of the clock were approaching eleven, and still he did notcome. On this night, of all others, he must have wished to be at home. 

Earlier in the evening Rotha had found occasion to go on some errandto the neighboring farm, and there she had heard that towards noonRalph had been seen on horseback crossing Stye Head towards Wastdale. Upon reporting this at the Moss, the old dame had seemed to berelieved. 

"He thinks of everything, " she had said. All that day she hadcherished the hope that it would be possible to bury Angus over thehills, at Gosforth. It was in the old churchyard there that her fatherlay-her father, her mother, and all her kindred. It was twenty milesto those plains and uplands, that lay beyond the bleak shores ofWastdale. It was a full five hours' journey there and back. But whentwice five hours had been counted, and still Ralph had not returned, the anxiety of the inmates of the old house could no longer beconcealed. In the eagerness of their expectation the clock tickedlouder than ever, the cricket chirped with more jubilant activity, thewind whistled shriller, the ghylls rumbled longer, but no welcomersound broke the stillness. 

At length Willy got up and put on his hat. He would go down the lonninto where it joined the road, and meet Ralph on the way. He would havedone so before, but the horror of walking under the shadow of thetrees where last night his father fell had restrained him. Conqueringhis fear, he sallied out. 

The late moon had risen, and was shining at full. With a beating hearthe passed the dreaded spot, and reached the highway beyond. He couldhear nothing of a horse's canter. There were steps approaching, and hewent on towards whence they came. Two men passed close beside him, butneither of them was Ralph. They did not respond to his greeting when, in accordance with the custom of the country, he bade them "Goodnight. " They were strangers, and they looked closely--he thoughtsuspiciously--at him as they went by. 

Willy walked a little farther, and then returned. As he got back tothe lane that led to the house, the two men passed him again. Oncemore they looked closely into his face. His fear prompted him tospeak, but again they went on in silence. As Willy turned up towardshome, the truth flashed upon him that these men were the cause ofRalph's absence. He knew enough of what was going on in the world torealize the bare possibility that his brother's early Parliamentariancampaign might bring him into difficulties even yet. It seemed certainthat the lord of Wythburn Manor would be executed. Only Ralph'sobscurity could save him. 

When Willy got back into the kitchen, the impression that Ralph wasbeing pursued and dogged was written on his face. His motherunderstood no more of his trouble than that his brother had notreturned; she looked from his face back to the fire, that now diedslowly on the hearth. Rotha was quicker to catch the significance ofWilly's nervous expression and fitful words. To her the situation nowappeared hardly less than tragic. With the old father lying dead inthe loft above, what would come to this household if the one stronghand in it was removed? Then she thought of her own father. What wouldbecome of him? Where was he this night? The sense of impendingdisaster gave strength to her, however. She rose and put her hand onWilly's arm as he walked to and fro across the earthen floor. She wasthe more drawn to him from some scarce explicable sense of hisweakness. 

"Some one coming now, " he said in eager tones--his ears were awakewith a feverish sensitiveness--"some one at the back. " It was Ralph atlast. He had come down the side of the ghyll, and had entered thehouse from behind. All breathed freely. 

"God bless thee!" said Mrs. Ray. 

"You've been anxious. It was bad to keep you so, " he said, with anobvious effort to assume his ordinary manner. 

"I reckon thou couldst not have helped it, my lad, " said Mrs. Ray. Relieved and cheerful, she was bustling about to get Ralph's supper onthe table. 

"Well, no, " he answered. "You know, I've been over to Gosforth--it's along ride--I borrowed Jackson's pony from Armboth; and what a wildcountry it is, to be sure! It blew a gale on Stye Head. It's bleakenough up there on a day like this, mother. I could scarce hold thehorse. "

"I don't wonder, Ralph; but see, here's thy poddish--thou must be fairclemm'd. "

"No, no; I called at Broom Hill. "

"How did you come in at the back, lad? Do you not come up the lonnin?"

"I thought I'd go round by the low meadow and see all safe, and thenthe nearest way home was on the hill side, you know. "

Willy and Rotha glanced simultaneously at Ralph as he said this, butthey found nothing in his face, voice, or manner to indicate that hiswords were intended to conceal the truth. 

"But look how late it is!" he said as the clock struck twelve; "hadn'twe better go off to bed, all of us?"

"I think I must surely go off, " said Mrs. Ray, and with Rotha she leftthe kitchen. Willy soon followed them, leaving Ralph to eat his supperalone. Laddie, who had entered with his master, was lying by thesmouldering fire, and after the one had finished eating, the othercame in for his liberal share of the plain meal. Then Ralph rose, and, lifting up his hat and staff, walked quietly to his brother's room. Willy was already in bed, but his candle was still burning. Sitting onan old oak chest that stood near the door of the little room, Ralphsaid, --

"I shall perhaps be off again before you are awake in the morning, butall will be done in good time. The funeral will be on the day afterto-morrow. Robbie Anderson will see to everything. "

"Robbie Anderson?" said Willy in an accent of surprise. 

"You know it's the custom in the dale for a friend of the family toattend to these offices. "

"Yes; but Robbie Anderson of all men!"

"You may depend upon him, " said Ralph. 

"This is the first time I've heard that he can depend upon himself, said Willy. 

"True--true--but I'm satisfied about Robbie. No, you need fearnothing. Robbie's a changed man, I think. "

"Changed he must be, Ralph, if you would commit to his care what couldnot be too well discharged by the most trustworthy friend of thefamily. "

"Yes, but Robbie will do as well as another--better. You know, Willy, I have an old weakness for a sheep that strays. When I get it back Ifancy, somehow, it's the best of the flock. "

"May your straggler justify your odd fancy this time, brother!"

"Rotha will see to what has to be done at home, " said Ralph, risingand turning to go. 

"Ralph, " said Willy, "do you know I--" He faltered and began again, obviously changing the subject. "Have you been in there to-night?"with a motion of the head towards the room wherein lay all thatremained of their father. 

"No; have you?"

"No; I dare not go. I would not if I could. I wish to remember him ashe lived, and one, glance at his dead face would blot out the memoryforever. "

Ralph could not understand this. There was no chord in his nature thatresponded to such feelings; but he said nothing in reply. 

"Ralph, " continued Willy, "do you know I think Rotha--I almostthin--do you not think that Rotha rather cares for me?"

A perceptible tremor passed over Ralph's face. Then he said, withsomething like a smile, "Do you think she does, my lad?"

"I do--I almost do think so. "

Ralph had resumed his seat on the oak chest. The simple, falteringwords just spoken had shaken him to the core. Hidden there--hiddeneven from himself--had lain inert for months a mighty passion such asonly a great heart can know. In one moment he had seen it and known itfor what it was. Yes, he had indeed loved this girl; he loved herstill. When he spoke again his voice seemed to have died inwards; heappeared to be speaking out of his breast. 

"And what of yourself, Willy?" he asked. 

"I think I care for her, too, --I think so. "

How sure was the other of a more absolute affection than the mostpositive words could express! Ralph sat silent for a moment, as washis wont when under the influence of strong feeling. His head inclineddownwards, and his eyes were fixed on the floor. A great struggle wasgoing on within him. Should he forthwith make declaration of his ownpassion? Love said, Yes! love should be above all ties of kindred, allclaims of blood. But the many tongues of an unselfish nature said, No!If this thing were wrong, it would of itself come to nought; if right, it would be useless to oppose it. The struggle was soon over, and theimpulse of self-sacrifice had conquered. But at what a cost--at what acost!

"Yet there is her father, you know, " Willy added. "One dreads thethought of such a match. There may be something in the blood--atleast, one fears--"

"You need have no fear of Rotha that comes of her relation to SimeonStagg. Sim is an innocent man. "

"So you say--so you say. Let us hope so. It's a terrible thought-thatof marriage with the flesh and blood of--of a murderer. "

"Rotha is as free from taint of crime as--you are. She is a noblegirl, and worthy of you, worthy of any man, whatever her father maybe, " said Ralph. 

"Yes, yes, I know; I thought you'd say so. I'm glad, Ralph--I can'ttell you how glad I am--to hear you say so. And if I'm right--if Rothareally loves me--I know you'll be as glad as I am. "

Ralph's face trembled slightly at this, but he nodded his head andsmiled. 

"Not that I could think of it for a long time, " Willy continued. "Thisdreadful occurrence must banish all such thoughts for a very longtime. "

Willy seemed to find happiness in the prospect, remote as it might be. Ralph's breast heaved as he looked upon his brother's brighteningface. That secret of his own heart must lie forever buried there. Yes, he had already resolved upon that. He should never darken the futurethat lay pictured in those radiant eyes. But this was a moment ofagony nevertheless. Ralph was following the funeral of the mightiestpassion of his soul. He got up and opened the door. 

"Good night, and God bless you!" he said huskily. 

"One moment, Ralph. Did you see two men, strangers, on the roadto-night? Ah, I remember, you came in at the back. "

"Two friends of Joe Garth's, " said Ralph, closing the door behind him. 

When he reached his own room he sat for some minutes on the bed. Whatwere the feelings that preyed upon him? He hardly knew. His heart wasdesolate. His life seemed to be losing its hope, or his hope itsobject. And not yet had he reached the worst. Some dread forewarningof a sterner fate seemed to hang above him. 

Rising, Ralph threw off his shoes, and drew on a pair of stouter ones. Then he laced up a pair of leathern leggings, and, taking down a heavycloak from behind the door, he put it across his arm. He had no lightbut the light of the moon. 

Stepping quietly along the creaky old corridor to the room where hisfather lay, Ralph opened the door and entered. A clod of red turfsmouldered on the hearth, and the warm glow from it mingled with thecold blue of the moonlight. How full of the odor of a dead age theroom now seemed to be! The roof was opened through the rude timbers tothe whitened thatch. Sheepskins were scattered about the black oakenfloor. Ralph walked to the chimney-breast, and stood on one of theskins as he leaned on the rannel-tree shelf. How still and cheerlessit all was!

The room stretched from the front to the back of the house, and had awindow at each end. The moon that shone through the window at thefront cast its light across the foot of the bed. Ralph had come to bidhis last good-night to him who lay thereon. It was in this room thathe himself had been born. He might never enter it again. 

How the strong man was laid low! All his pride of strength had shrunkto this! "The lofty looks of men shall be humbled, and the haughtinessof men shall be bowed down. " What indeed was man, whose breath was inhis nostrils!

The light was creeping up the bed. Silent was he who lay there as thesecret which he had never discharged even to his deaf pillow. Had thatsecret mutinied in the heart that knew its purple war no more? Ah! howtrue it was that conscience was a thousand swords. With no witnessagainst him except himself, whither could he have fled from theaccusation that burned within him as a fire! Not chains nor cellscould have spoken to this strong man like the awful voice of hissolitary heart. How remorse must have corroded that heart! How he musthave numbered the hours of that remorse! How one sanguinary deed musthave trampled away all joyous memories! But the secret agony was overat last: it was over now. 

The moonlight had crept up to the head. It was silvering the grayhairs that rested there. Ralph stepped up to the bedside and uncoveredthe face. Was it changed since he looked on it last? Last night it washis father's face: was it laden with iniquity now? How the visiblephantom of one horrible moment must have stood up again and againbefore these eyes! How sternly fortune must have frowned on thesefeatures! Yet it was his father's face still. 

And what of that father's great account? Who could say what the finalarbitrament would be? Had he who lay there, the father, taken up allthis load of guilt and remorse for love of him, the son? Was he goneto a dreadful audit, too, and all for love of him? And to know nothingof it until now--until it was too late to take him by the hand or tolook into his eyes! Nay, to have tortured him unwittingly with ahundred cruel words! Ralph remembered how in days past he had spokenbitterly in his father's presence of the man who allowed Simeon Staggto rest under an imputation of murder not his own. That murder hadbeen done to save his own life--however unwisely, however rashly, still to save his (Ralph's) own life. 

Ralph dropped to his knees at the bedside. What barrier had stoodbetween the dead man and himself that in life the one had neverrevealed himself to the other? They were beyond that revealment now, yet here was everything as in a glass. "Oh, my father, " cried Ralph ashis head fell between his hands, "would that tears of mine could scaldaway your offence!"

Then there came back the whisper of the old words, "The lofty looks ofmen shall be humbled, and the haughtiness of men shall be bowed down. "

Ralph knelt long at his father's side, and when he rose from his kneesit was with a calmer but a heavier heart. 

"Surely God's hand is upon me, " he murmured. The mystery would yieldno other meaning. "Gone to his account with the burden, not of myguilt, but of my fate, upon him. "

Ralph walked to the fire and turned over the expiring peat. It gave afitful flicker. He took from his pocket the paper that had fallen fromhis father's breast, and looked long at it in the feeble light. It wasall but the only evidence of the crime, and it must be destroyed. Heput the paper to the light. Drawing it away, he paused and reflected. He thought of his stricken mother, and his resolve seemed fixed. Hemust burn this witness against his father; he must crush the blackshadow of it in his hand. Could he but crush as easily the blackshadow of impending doom! Could he but obliterate as completely thedread reckoning of another world!

The paper that hung in his hand had touched the flickering peat. Itwas already ignited, but he drew it once more away, and crushed theburning corner to ashes in his palm. 

No, it must not be destroyed. He thought of how Rotha had stood overher father's prostrate form in the room of the village inn, and criedin her agony, "Tell them it is not true. " Who could say what thispaper might yet do for him and her?

Ralph put the warrant back, charred and crumbled, into the breastpocket of the jerkin he wore. 

The burning of the paper had for a moment filled the chamber withlight. After the last gleam of it had died away, and the ash of theburnt portion lay in his palm, Ralph walked to the front window andlooked out. All was still. Only the wind whistled. How black againstthe moon loomed the brant walls of the Castle Rock across the vale!

Turning about, Ralph re-covered the face and said, "Death is kindest;how could I look into this face alive?"

And the whisper of the old words came back once more: "The lofty looksof men shall be humbled, and the haughtiness of men shall be boweddown. "

Ralph walked to the window at the back and gently pushed it open. Itoverlooked the fell and the Shoulthwaite Ghyll. A low roof went downfrom it almost to the ground. He stepped out on to this, and stood fora moment in the shadow that lay upon it. 

He must take his last look now. He must bid his last good-night. Themoon through the opposite window still shone on the silvery hair. Thewind was high. It found its way through the open casement. Itfluttered the face-cloth above the face. Ralph pushed back the sash, and in a moment he was gone. 

CHAPTER X. MATTHA BRANTH'ET "FLYTES" THE PARSON. 

The household on the Moss were early astir on the morning appointedfor the funeral of Angus Ray. Matthew Branthwaite's wife and daughterwere bustling about the kitchen of the old house soon after daybreak. 

Mrs. Branthwaite was a fragile little body, long past her best, withthe crow's feet deeply indented about her eyes, which had the timidlook of those of a rabbit, and were peculiarly appropriate to a goodold creature who seemed to be constantly laboring against the ideathat everything she did was done wrongly. Her daughter Liza was a neatlittle thing of eighteen, with the bluest of blue eyes, the plumpestof plump cheeks, and the merriest of merry voices. They had walkedfrom their home in the gray dawn in order to assist at thepreliminaries to the breakfast which had to be eaten by a largecompany of the dalesmen before certain of them set out on the longjourney across the fells. 

The previous day had been the day of the "winding, " a name thatpointed to the last offices of Abraham Strong, the Wythburn carpenter. In the afternoon of the winding day the mistresses of the houseswithin the "warning" had met to offer liberal doses of solace and totake equally liberal doses of sweet broth, a soup sweetened withraisins and sugar, which was reserved for such melancholy occasions. 

According to ancient custom, the "maister men" of the dale were toassemble at nine o'clock on the morning following the winding, and itwas to meet their needs that old Mrs. Branthwaite and her daughter hadwalked over to assist Rotha. The long oak table had to be removed fromthe wall before the window, and made to stand down the middle of thefloor. Robbie Anderson had arrived early at the Moss in order toeffect this removal. After his muscles had exercised themselves uponthe ponderous article of furniture, and had placed the benches calledskemmels down each side and chairs at each end, he went into thestable to dress down the mare and sharpen her shoes preparatory to herlong journey. 

The preliminaries in the kitchen occupied a couple of hours, andduring this time Mrs. Ray and Willy sat together in a room above. Thereason of Ralph's absence had been explained to his mother by Rotha, who had received her information from Robbie Anderson. The old damehad accepted the necessity with characteristic resignation. What Ralphthought well to do she knew would be best. She did not foresee evilconsequences. 

Willy had exhibited more perturbation. Going into his brother's roomon the morning after their conversation, he saw clearly enough thatthe bed had not been slept upon. The two friends of Joe Garth's, ofwhom Ralph had spoken with so much apparent unconcern, had obviouslydriven him away from home in the depth of the night. Then came Rotha'sexplanation. 

His worst fears were verified. Was it conceivable that Ralph couldescape the machinations of those who had lain a web that had alreadyentangled the lord of Wythburn himself? Every one who had served inthe trained bands of the Parliament was at the mercy of any man, who, for the gratification of personal spite, chose to become informeragainst him. 

The two strangers had been seen in the city during the preceding day. It was obviously their purpose to remain until time itself verifiedthe rumor that Ralph had left these parts to escape them. Theblacksmith had bragged in his cups at the Red Lion that Wilfrey Lawsonof the constable's court at Carlisle would have Ralph Ray in less thana week. Robbie Anderson had overheard this, and had reported it at theMoss. Robbie professed to know better, and to be able to laugh at suchpretensions. Willy was more doubtful. He thought his better education, and consequently more intimate acquaintance with the history of suchconflicts with the ruling powers, justified him in his apprehensions. He sat with his mother while the business was going on downstairs, apparently struggling with an idea that it was his duty to comforther, but offering such curious comfort that the old dame looked upagain and again with wide eyes, which showed that her son wassuggesting to her slower intellect a hundred dangers and a hundredmoods of sorrow that she could neither discover for herself nor copewith. 

Towards nine the "maister men" of Wythburn began to arrive atShoulthwaite. Such of them as intended to accompany the remains oftheir fellow-dalesman to their resting place at Gosforth came onmountain ponies, which they dismounted in the court and led into aspare barn. Many came on foot, and of these by much the larger partmeant to accompany the _cort�ge_ only to the top of the Armboth Fell, and, having "sett" it so far, to face no more of the more than twentymiles of rough country that lay between the valley and the churchyardon the plains by the sea. 

Matthew Branthwaite was among the first to arrive. The old weaver wasresplendent in the apparel usually reserved for "Cheppel Sunday. " Theexternal elevation of his appearance from the worn and sober brown ofhis daily "top-sark" seemed to produce a corresponding elevation ofthe weaver's spirit. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, he seemedtempted to let fall a sapient proverb of anything but a funereal tone. On stepping into the kitchen and seeing the provision that had beenmade for a repast, he did indeed intimate his intention of assistingat the ceremony in the language of the time-honored wren who cried "Ihelps" as she let a drop of water fall into the sea. At this momentthe clergyman from the chapel-of-ease on the Raise arrived at theMoss, and Matthew prepared to put his precept into practice. 

The priest, Nicholas Stevens by name, was not a Cumbrian. He had kepthis office through three administrations, and to their several formsof legislation he had proved equally tractable. His spirit ofaccommodation had not been quite so conspicuous in his dealings withthose whom he conceived to be beneath him. But in truth he had lefthis parishioners very largely to their own devices. When he was movedto come among them, it was with the preoccupied air not so much of thestudent or visionary as of a man who was isolated from those about himby combined authority, influence, and perhaps superior blood. He nowtook his seat at the head of the table with the bearing of one to whomit had never occurred to take a lower place. He said little at first, and when addressed he turned his face slowly round to him who spokewith an air of mingled abstraction and self-satisfaction, throughwhich a feeble smile of condescension struggled and seemed to say in amild voice, "Did you speak?"

Matthew sat at the foot of the table, and down each side were seatedthe dalesmen, to the number of twenty-four. There were Thomas Fell andAdam Rutledge, Job Leathes and Luke Cockrigg, John Jackson of Armboth, and little Reuben Thwaite. 

His reverence cut up the ham into slices as formal as his creed, whileold Matthew poured out the contents of two huge black jacks. RobbieAnderson carried the plates to and fro; Mrs. Branthwaite and Lizaserved out the barley and oaten bread. 

The breakfast was hardly more than begun when the kitchen door waspartially opened, and the big head of a little man became visible onthe inner side of it, the body and legs of the new-comer not havingyet arrived in the apartment. 

"Am I late?" the head said in a hoarse whisper from its place low downon the door-jamb. It was Monsey Laman, red and puffing after a sharprun. 

"It's the laal Frenchman. Come thy ways in, " said Matthew. Rotha, whowas coming and going from the kitchen to the larder, found a chair forthe schoolmaster, and he slid into it with the air of one who waspersuading himself that his late advent was unobserved. 

"I met that Garth--that--Joe Garth on the road, and he kept me, "whispered Monsey apologetically to Matthew across the table. Thepresence of Death somewhere in the vicinity had banished theschoolmaster's spirit of fun. 

While this was going on at one end of the table, Rotha had made herway to the other end, with the ostensible purpose of cutting up thecheese, but with the actual purpose of listening to a conversation inwhich his reverence Nicholas Stevens was beginning to bear anunusually animated part. Some one had made allusion to the sudden and, as was alleged, the unseemly departure of Ralph Ray on the eve of hisfather's funeral. Some one else had deplored the necessity for thatdeparture, and had spoken of it as a cruel outrage on the liberties ofa good man. From this generous if somewhat disloyal sentiment hisreverence was expressing dissent. He thought it nothing but just thatthe law should take its course. 

This might involve the mortification of our private feelings; it wouldcertainly be a grief to him, loving, as he did, the souls committed tohis care; but individual affections must be sacrificed to the generalweal. The young man, Ralph Ray, had outraged the laws of his countryin fighting and conspiring against his anointed King. It was hard, butit was right, that he should be punished for his treason. 

His reverence was speaking in cold metallic tones, that fell like theclank of chains on Rotha's ears. 

"Moreover, we should all do our best for the King, " said theclergyman, "to bring such delinquents to justice. "

"Shaf!" cried Matthew Branthwaite from the other end of the table. Thelittle knots of talkers had suddenly become silent. 

"Shaf!" repeated Matthew; "what did ye do yersel for the King inOliver's days? Wilt thoo mak me tell thee? Didst thoo not tak whatthoo called the oath of abjuration agen the King five years agone?Didst thoo not? Ey? And didst thoo not come round and ask ivery man onus to do the same?"

The clergyman looked confounded. He dropped his knife and, unable tomake a rejoinder, turned to those about him and said, in a tone ofamazement, "Did you ever hear the like?"

"Nay, " cried Matthew, following up his advantage, "ye may hear itagen, an ye will. "

Poor Mrs. Branthwaite seemed sorely distressed. Standing by herhusband's chair, she appeared to be struggling between impulse andfear in an attempt to put her hand on the mouth of her loquacioushusband, in order to avert the uncertain catastrophe which she wassure must ensue from this unexpected and uncompromising defiance ofthe representative in Wythburn of the powers that be. 

Rotha gave Matthew a look of unmistakable gratitude, which, however, was wasted on that infuriated iconoclast. Fixing his eyes steadily onthe priest, the weaver forthwith gave his reverence more than oneopportunity of hearing the unwelcome outburst again, telling him byonly too palpable hints that the depth of his loyalty was his stipendof �300 a year, and the secret of his willingness to see Ralph in thehands of the constable of Carlisle was the fact that the young man hadmade no secret of his unwillingness to put off his hat to a priest whohad thrice put off his own hat to a money-bag. 

"Gang yer gate back to yer steeple-house, Nicholas Stevens, " saidMatthew, "and mortify yer fatherly bosom for the good of the only soulthe Almighty has ge�n to yer charge, and mind the auld saying, 'Nivveruse the taws when a gloom will do the turn. '"

"You deserve the taws about your back, sirrah, to forget my sacredoffice so far as to speak so, " said the minister. 

"And ye hev forgat yer sacred office to call me nicknames, " answeredMatthew, nothing abashed. 

"I see you are no better than those blaspheming Quakers whom JusticeRawlinson has wisely committed to the common gaol--poor famishedseducers that deserve the stocks!"

"Rich folk hev rowth of friends, " rejoined Matthew, "an' olas will hevwhile the mak of thyself are aboot. "

His reverence was not slow to perceive that the pulpit had been nomatch for the Red Lion as a place of preparation for an encounter likethe present. Gathering up with what grace he could the tattered andbesmeared skirts of his priestly dignity, he affected contempt for theweaver by ignoring his remarks; and, turning to those immediatelyaround him, he proceeded with quite unusual warmth to deliver a homilyon duty. Reverting to the subject of Ralph Ray's flight from Wythburn, he said that it was well that the young man had withdrawn himself, forhad he remained longer in these parts, and had the high sheriff atCarlisle not proceeded against him, he himself, though much againsthis inclination, might have felt it his duty as a servant of God andthe King to put the oath of allegiance to him. 

"I do not say positively that I should have done so, " he said, in aconfidential parenthesis, "but I fear I could not have resisted thatduty. "

"Dree out the inch when ye've tholed the span, " cried Matthew; "I'dnivver strain lang at sic a wee gnat as that. "

Without condescending to notice the interruption, his reverenceproceeded to say he had recently learned that it had been theintention of the judges on the circuit to recommend Angus Ray, thelamented departed, as a justice for the district. This step had beenin contemplation since the direful tragedy which had recently beenperpetrated in their midst, and of which the facts remained stillunexplained, though circumstantial evidence pointed to a solution ofthe mystery. 

When saying this the speaker turned, as though with an involuntary andunconscious gaze, towards the spot where Rotha stood. He had pushedpast the girl on coming through the porch without acknowledging hersalutation. 

"And if Angus Ray had lived to become a justice, " continued theReverend Nicholas, "it very likely must have been his duty before Godand the King to apprehend his son Ralph on a charge of treason. "

Robbie Anderson, who was standing by, felt at that moment that itwould very likely be _his_ duty before long to take the priest bycertain appendages of his priestly apparel, and carry him less thantenderly to a bed more soft than odorous. 

"It must have been his duty, I repeat, " said his reverence, speakingwith measured emphasis, "before God and the King. "

"Leave God oot on't, " shouted Matthew. "Ye may put that in when ye getintil yer pulpit, and then ye'll deceive none but them that lippentill ye. Don't gud yersel wi' God's name. "

"It is written, " said his reverence, "'It is an abomination tokings to commit wickedness; for the throne is established byrighteousness. '"

"Dus'ta think to knock me doon wi' the Bible?" said Matthew with atouch of irreverence. "I reckon ony cock may crouse on his ownmiddenheed. Ye mind me of the clerk at Tickell, who could argify noneat all agen the greet Geordie Fox, so he up and broke his nose wi' abash of his family Bible. "

This final rejoinder proved too much for the minister, who rose, therepast being over, and stalked past Rotha into the adjoining chamber, where the widow and Willy sat in their sorrow. The dalesmen lookedafter his retreating figure, and as the door of the inner room closed, they heard his metallic voice ask if the deceased had judiciouslyarranged his temporal affairs. 

During the encounter between the weaver and the clergyman the companyhad outwardly observed a rigid neutrality. Little Liza, it is true, had obviously thought it all the best of good fun, and had enjoyed itaccordingly. She had grinned and giggled just as she had done on thepreceding Sunday when a companion, the only surviving child of Baptistparents now dead, had had the water sprinkled on her face at herchristening in the chapel on the Raise. But Luke Cockrigg, ReubenThwaite, and the rest had remained silent and somewhat appalled. Theschoolmaster had felt himself called upon to participate in thestrife, but being in the anomalous position of owing his officialobligations to the minister and his convictions to the side championedby the weaver, he had contented him with sundry grave shakes of hisbig head, which shakes, being subject to diverse interpretations, werethe least compromising expressions of opinion which his genius couldsuggest to him. No sooner, however, had the door closed on theclergyman than a titter went round the table. Matthew was still at awhite heat. Accustomed as he was to "tum'le" his neighbors at the RedLion, he was now profoundly agitated. It was not frequently that hebrought down such rare game in his sport. 

"Mattha Branthet, " said Reuben Thwaite, "what, man, thoo didst flytethe minister! What it is to hev the gift o' gob and gumption!"

"Shaf! It's kittle shootin' at crows and clergy, " replied Matthew. 

The breakfast being over, the benches were turned towards the big peatfire that glowed red on the hearth and warmed the large kitchen onthis wintry day. The ale jars were refilled, pipes and tobacco werebrought in, and the weaver relinquished his office of potman to hisdaughter. 

"I'd be nobbut a clot-heed, " he said when abdicating, "and leave nanefor mysel if I sarrad it oot. "

Robbie Anderson now put on his great cloak, and took down a whip froma strap against the rafters. 

"What's this?" said little Reuben to Robbie. "Are you going without aglass?"

Robbie signified his intention of doing just that and nothing else. Atthis there was a general laugh, after which Reuben, with numerousblinkings of his little eyes, bantered Robbie about the great droughtnot long before, when a universal fast had been proclaimed, and Robbiehad asked why, if folks could not get water, they would not contentthemselves with ale. 

"Liza, teem a short pint intil this lang Robbie, " said Matthew. 

Liza brought up a foaming pot, but the young man put it aside with abashful smile at the girl, who laughed and blushed as she pressed itback upon him. 

"Not yet, Liza; when we come back, perhaps. "

"Will you not take it from me?" said the girl, turning her pretty headaside, and giving a sly dig of emphasis to the pronouns. 

"Not even from you, Liza, yet awhile. "

The mischievous little minx was piqued at his refusal, and determinedthat he should drink it, or decline to do so at the peril of losingher smiles. 

"Come, Robbie, you shall drink it off--you must. "

"No, my girl, no. "

"I think I know those that would do it if I asked them, " said Liza, with an arch elevation of her dimpled chin and a shadow of a pout. 

"Who wouldn't do it, save Robbie Anderson?" he said, laughing for thefirst time that morning as he walked out of the kitchen. 

In a few minutes he returned, saying all was ready, and it was time tostart away. Every man rose and went to the front of the house. The oldmare Betsy was there, with the coffin strapped on her broad back. Herbruised knees had healed; the frost had disappeared, her shoes weresharpened, and she could not slip. When the mourners had assembled andranged themselves around the horse, the Reverend Nicholas Stevens cameout with the relatives, the weeping mother and son, with Rotha Stagg, and the "Old Hundredth" was sung. 

Then the procession of men on foot and men on horseback set off, Robbie Anderson in front leading the mare that bore the coffin, and aboy riding a young horse by his side. Last of all rode Willy Ray, andas they passed beneath the trees that overhung the lane, he turned inthe saddle and waved his arm to the two women, who, through theblinding mist of tears, watched their departure from the porch. 

CHAPTER XI. LIZA'S WILES. 

The procession had just emerged from the lane, and had turned into theold road that hugged the margin of the mere, when two men walkedslowly by in the opposite direction. Dark as it had been when Willyencountered these men before, he had not an instant's doubt as totheir identity. 

The reports of Ralph's disappearance, which Matthew had so assiduouslypromulgated in whispers, had reached the destination which Ralph haddesigned for them. The representatives of the Carlisle high constablewere conscious that they had labored under serious disadvantages intheir efforts to capture a dalesman in his own stronghold of themountains. Moreover, their zeal was not so ardent as to make themeager to risk the dangers of an arrest that was likely to be full ofperil. They were willing enough to accept the story of Ralph's flight, but they could not reasonably neglect this opportunity to assurethemselves of its credibility. So they had beaten about the houseduring the morning under the pioneering of the villager whom they hadinjudiciously chosen as their guide, and now they scanned the faces ofthe mourners who set out on the long mountain journey. 

Old Matthew's risibility was evidently much tickled by the sense oftheir thwarted purpose. Despite the mournful conditions under which hewas at that moment abroad, he could not forbear to wish them, from hisplace in the procession, "a gay canny mornin'"; and failing to satisfyhimself with the effect produced by this insinuating salutation, hecould not resist the further temptation of reminding them that theyhad frightened and not caught their game. 

"Fleyin' a bird's not the way to grip it, " he cried, to the obvioushorror of the clergyman, whose first impulse was to remonstrate withthe weaver on his levity, but whose maturer reflections induced themore passive protest of a lifted head and a suddenly elevated nose. 

This form of contempt might have escaped the observation of the personfor whom it was intended had not Reuben Thwaite, who walked besideMatthew, gently emphasized it with a jerk of the elbow and a motion ofthe thumb. 

"He'll glower at the moon till he falls in the midden, " said Matthewwith a grunt of amused interest. 

The two strangers had now gone by, and Willy Ray breathed freely, ashe thought that with this encounter the threatened danger had probablybeen averted. 

Then the procession wound its way slowly along the breast of BrackenWater. When Robbie Anderson, in front, had reached a point at which apath went up from the pack-horse road to the top of the Armboth Fell, he paused for a moment, as though uncertain whether to pursue it. 

"Keep to the auld corpse road, " cried Matthew; and then, inexplanation of his advice, he explained the ancient Cumbrian land law, by which a path becomes public property if a dead body is carried overit. 

Before long the procession had reached the mountain path acrossCockrigg Bank, and this path it was intended to follow as far asWatendlath. 

Here the Reverend Nicholas Stevens left the mourners. In accordancewith an old custom, he might have required that they should passthrough his chapel yard on the Raise before leaving the parish, but hehad waived his right to this tribute to episcopacy. After offering asuitable blessing, he turned away, not without a withering glance atthe weaver, who was muttering rather too audibly an adaptation of therhyme, --

 I'll set him up on yon crab-tree, It's sour and dour, and so is he. 

"I reckon, " continued Matthew to little Reuben Thwaite, by his side, as the procession started afresh, --"I reckon yon auld Nick, " with alurch of his thumb over his shoulder, "likes Ash Wednesday better nerthis Wednesday--better ner ony Wednesday--for that's the day he cursesevery yan all roond, and asks the folks to say Amen tul him. "

The schoolmaster had walked demurely enough thus far; nor did thedeparture of the clergyman effect a sensible elevation of his spirits. Of all the mourners, the "laal limber Frenchman" was the mostmournful. 

It was a cheerless winter morning when they set out from Shoulthwaite. The wind had never fallen since the terrible night of the death ofAngus. As they ascended the fell, however, it was full noon. The sunhad broken languidly through the mists that had rolled midway acrossthe mountains, and were now being driven by the wind in a long whitecontinent towards the south, there to gather between more shelteredheadlands to the strength of rain. When they reached the top of theArmboth Fell the sky was clear, the sun shone brightly and bathed thegorse that stretched for miles around in varied shades of soft blue, brightening in some places to purple, and in other places deepening toblack. The wind was stronger here than it had been in the valley, andblew in gusts of all but overpowering fierceness from High Seattowards Glaramara. 

"This caps owte, " said Matthew, as he lurched to the wind. "Yanwaddent hev a crowful of flesh on yan's bones an yan lived up here. "

When the procession reached the village of Watendlath a pause wasmade. From this point onward the journey through Borrowdale towardsthe foot of Stye Head Pass must necessarily be a hard and tiresomeone, there being scarcely a traceable path through the huge bowlders. Here it was agreed that the mourners on foot should turn back, leavingthe more arduous part of the journey to those only who were mounted onsure-footed ponies. Matthew Branthwaite, Monsey Laman, and ReubenThwaite were among the dozen or more dalesmen who left the processionat this point. 

When, on their return journey, they had regained the summit of theArmboth Fell, and were about to descend past Blea Tarn towardsWythburn, they stood for a moment at that highest point and took alast glimpse of the mournful little company, with the one riderlesshorse in front, that wended its way slowly beyond Rosthwaite, alongthe banks of the winding Derwent, which looked to them now like a thinstreak of blue in the deep valley below. 

Soon after the procession left the house on the Moss, arrangementswere put in progress for the meal that had to be prepared for themourners upon their return in the evening. 

Some preliminary investigations into the quantity of food that wouldhave to be cooked in the hours intervening disclosed the fact that thewheaten flour had run short, and that some one would need to go acrossto the mill at Legberthwaite at once if hot currant cake were to beamong the luxuries provided for the evening table. 

So Liza took down her cloak, tied the ribbons of her bonnet about herplump cheeks, and set out over the dale almost immediately the funeralparty turned the end of the lonnin. The little creature tripped alongjauntily enough, with a large sense of her personal consequence to theenterprises afoot, but without an absorbing sentiment of the gravityof the occurrences that gave rise to them. She had scarcely crossedthe old bridge that led into the Legberthwaite highway when she sawthe blacksmith coming hastily from the opposite direction. 

Now, Liza was not insensible of her attractions in the eyes of thatson of Vulcan, and at a proper moment she was not indisposed to acceptthe tribute of his admiration. Usually, however, she either felt oraffected a measure of annoyance at the importunity with which heprosecuted his suit, and when she saw him coming towards her on thisoccasion her first feeling was a little touched with irritation. "Here's this great tiresome fellow again, " she thought; "he can neverlet a girl go by without speaking to her. I've a great mind to leapthe fence and cross the fields to the mill. "

Liza did not carry into effect the scarcely feminine athletic exerciseshe had proposed to herself; and this change of intention on her partopens up a more curious problem in psychology than the little creatureherself had any notion of. The fact is that just as Liza had resolvedthat she would let nothing in the world interfere with her fixeddetermination not to let the young blacksmith speak to her, sheobserved, to her amazement, that the gentleman in question had clearlyno desire to do so, but was walking past her hurriedly, and with sopreoccupied an air as actually seemed to suggest that he was not somuch as conscious of her presence. 

It was true that Liza did not want to speak to Mr. Joseph. It was alsotrue that she had intended to ignore him. But that _he_ should notwant to speak to _her_, and that _he_ should seem to ignore _her_, wasmuch more than could be borne by her stubborn little bit of coquettishpride, distended at that moment, too, by the splendors of her bestattire. In short, Liza was piqued into a desire to investigate theportentous business which had obviously shut her out of theconsciousness of the blacksmith. 

"Mr. Garth, " she said, stopping as he drew up to her. 

"Liza, is that you?" he replied; "I'm in a hurry, lass--good morning. "

"Mr. Garth, " repeated Liza, "and maybe you'll tell me what's all yourhurry about. Has some one's horse dropped a shoe, or is this yourhooping day, or what, that you don't know a body now when you meet onein the road?"

"No, no, my lass--good morning, Liza, I must be off. "

"Very well, Mr. Garth, and if you must, you must. _I'm_ not the one tokeep any one 'at doesn't want to stop; not I, indeed, " said Liza, tossing up her head with an air as of supreme indifference, andturning half on her heel. "Next time you speak to me, you--you--you_will_ speak to me--mind that. " And with an expression denoting thetriumph of arms achieved by that little outburst of irony and sarcasmcombined, Liza tossed the ribbons aside that were pattering her facein the wind, and seemed about to continue her journey. 

Her parting shot had proved too much for Mr. Garth. That young man hadstopped a few paces down the road, and between two purposes seemed fora moment uncertain which to adopt; but the impulse of what he thoughthis love triumphed over the impulse of what proved to be his hate. Retracing the few steps that lay between him and the girl, he said, --

"Don't take it cross, Liza, my lass; if I thought you really wanted tospeak to me, I'd stop anywhere for nowt--that I would. I'd stopanywhere for nowt; but you always seemed to me over throng with yonRobbie, that you did; but if for certain you really did wantme--that's to say, want to speak to me--I'd stop anywhere for nowt. "

The liberal nature of the blacksmith's offer did not so much impressthe acute intelligence of the girl as the fact that Mr. Garth wasprobably at that moment abroad upon an errand which he had notundertaken from equally disinterested motives. Concerning the natureof this errand she felt no particular curiosity, but that it wasunknown to her, and was being withheld from her, was of itself asufficient provocation to investigation. 

Liza was a simple country wench, but it would be an error to supposethat because she had been bred up in a city more diminutive thananything that ever before gave itself the name, and because she hadlived among hand-looms and milking-pails, and had never seen a ball oran opera, worn a mask or a domino, she was destitute of the instinctfor intrigue which in the gayer and busier world seems to be theheritage of half her sex. Putting her head aside demurely, as witheyes cast, down she ran her fingers through one of her loose ribbons, she said softly, --

"And who says I'm so very partial to Robbie? _I_ never said so, did I?Not that I say I'm partial to anybody else either--not that I _ay_so--Joseph!"

The sly emphasis which was put upon the word that expressed Liza'sunwillingness to commit herself to a declaration of her affection forsome mysterious entity unknown seemed to Mr. Garth to be proof beyondcontempt of question that the girl before him implied an affection foran entity no more mysterious than himself. The blacksmith's facebrightened, and his manner changed. What had before been almost asupplicating tone, gave place to a tone of secure triumph. 

"Liza, " he said, "I'm going to bring that Robbie down a peg or two. He's been a perching himself up alongside of Ralph Ray this last backend, but I'm going to feckle him this turn. "

"No, Joseph; are you going to do that, though?" said Liza, with abrightening face that seemed to Mr. Garth to say, "Do it by allmeans. "

"Mayhap I am, " said the blacksmith, significantly shaking his head. Hewas snared as neatly by this simple face as ever was a swallow by alinnet hidden in a cage among the grass. 

"And that Ralph, too, the great lounderan fellow, he treats me likedirt, that he does. "

"But you'll pay him out now, won't you, Joseph?" said Liza, as thoughglorying in the blacksmith's forthcoming glory. 

"Liza, my lass, shall I tell you something?" Under the fire of a pairof coquettish little eyes, his head as well as his heart seemed tomelt, and he became eagerly communicative. Dropping his voice, hesaid, --

"That Ralph's not gone away at all. He'll be at his father's berrying, that he will. "

"Nay!" cried Liza, without a prolonged accent of surprise; and, indeed, this fact had come upon her with so much unexpectedness thather curiosity was now actually as well as ostensibly aroused. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Garth; "and there's those as knows where to lay handson him this very day--that there is. "

"I shouldn't be surprised, now, if yon Robbie Anderson has been up tosomething with him, " said Liza, with a curl of the lip intended toconvey an idea of overpowering disgust at the conduct of the absentRobbie. 

"And maybe he has, " said Mr. Garth, with a ponderous shake of thehead, denoting the extent of his reverse. Evidently "he could an' hewould. "

"But you'll go to them, won't you, Joseph? That is them as wantsthem--leastways one of them--them as wants _him_ will go and take him, won't they?"

"That they will, " said Joseph emphatically. "But I must be off, lass;for I've the horses to get ready, forby the shortness of the time. "

"So you're going on horseback, eh, Joey? Will it take you long?"

"A matter of two hours, for we must go by the Black Sail and come backto Wastdale Head, and that's round-about, thou knows. " "So you'll takethem on Wastdale Head, then, eh?" said Liza, turning her head aside asthough in the abundance of her maidenly modesty, but really glancingslyly under the corner of her bonnet in the direction taken by themourners, and wondering if they could be overtaken. 

Joseph was a little disturbed to find that he had unintentionallydisclosed so much of the design. The potency of the bright blue eyesthat looked up so admiringly into his face at the revelation of thesubtlety with which he had seen through a mystery impenetrable to lesspowerful vision, had betrayed him into unexpected depths ofconfidence. 

Having gone so far, however, Mr. Garth evidently concluded that thebest course was to make a clean breast of it--an expedient which heconceived to be insusceptible of danger, for he could see that thefuneral party were already on the brow of the hill. So, with one footstretched forward as if in the preliminary stage of a hurriedleave-taking, the blacksmith told Liza that he had met theschoolmaster that morning, and had gathered enough from a word thelittle man had dropped without thought to put him upon the trace ofthe old garrulous body with whom the schoolmaster lodged; that hismother, Mistress Garth, had undertaken the office of sounding thisperson, and had learned that Ralph had hinted that he would relieveRobbie Anderson of his duty at the top of the Stye Head Pass. 

Having heard this, Liza had heard enough, and she was not unwillingthat the blacksmith should make what speed he could out of her sight, so that she in turn might make what speed she could out of his sight, and, returning to the Moss without delay, communicate her fearfulburden of intelligence to Rotha. 

CHAPTER XII. THE FLIGHT ON THE FELLS. 

I. After going a few paces in order to sustain the appearance ofcontinuing the journey on which she had set out, Liza waited until theblacksmith was far enough away to admit of retracing her steps to thebridge. There she climbed the wooden fence, and ran with all speedacross the fields to Shoulthwaite. She entered the house in a fever ofexcitement, but was drawn back to the porch by Rotha, who experiencedserious difficulty in restraining her from a more public exposition ofthe facts with which she was full to the throat than seemed well forthe tranquillity of the household. With quick-coming breath sheblurted out the main part of her revelations, and then paused, as muchfrom physical exhaustion as from an overwhelming sense of thethreatened calamity. 

Rotha was quick to catch the significance of the message communicatedin Liza's disjointed words. Her pale face became paler, the sidelonglook that haunted her eyes came back to them at this moment, hertremulous lips trembled visibly, and for a few minutes she stoodapparently powerless and irresolute. 

Then the light of determination returned to the young girl's face. Leaving Liza in the porch, she went into the house for her cloak andhood. When she rejoined her companion her mind was made up to a daringenterprise. 

"The men of Wythburn, such of them as we can trust, " she said, "are inthe funeral train. We must go ourselves; at least I must go. "

"Do let me go, too, " said Liza; "but where are you going?"

"To cross the fell to Stye Head. "

"We can't go there, Rotha--two girls. "

"What of that? But you need not go. It's eight miles across, and I mayrun most of the way. They've been gone nearly an hour; they are out ofsight. I must make the short cut through the heather. "

The prospect of the inevitable excitement of the adventure, amounting, in Liza's mind, to a sensation equivalent to sport, prevailed over herdread of the difficulties and dangers of a perilous mountain journey, and she again begged to be permitted to go. 

"Are you quite sure you wish it?" said Rotha, not without anunderlying reluctance to accept of her companionship. "It's a ruggedjourney. We must walk under Glaramara. " She spoke as though she hadthe right of maturity of years to warn her friend against a hazardousproject. 

Liza protested that nothing would please her but to go. She acceptedwithout a twinge the implication of superiority of will and physiquewhich the young daleswoman arrogated. If social advantages had countedfor anything, they must have been all in Liza's favor; but they wereless than nothing in the person of this ruddy girl against the naturalstrength of the pale-faced young woman, the days of whose yearsscarcely numbered more than her own. 

"We must set off at once, " said Rotha; "but first I must go toFornside. "

To go round by the tailor's desolate cottage did not sensibly impedetheir progress. Rotha had paid hurried visits daily to her forlornlittle home since the terrible night of the death of the master ofShoulthwaite. She had done what she could to make the cheerless houseless cheerless. She had built a fire on the hearth and spread out herfather's tools on the table before the window at which he worked. Nothing had tempted him to return. Each morning she found everythingexactly as she had left it the morning before. 

When the girls reached the cottage, Liza instinctively dropped back. Rotha's susceptible spirit perceived the restraint, and suffered fromthe sentiment of dread which it implied. 

"Stay here, then, " she said, in reply to her companion's unspokenreluctance to go farther. In less than a minute Rotha had returned. Her eyes were wet. 

"He is not here, " she said, without other explanation. "Could we notgo up the fell?"

The girls turned towards the Fornside Fell on an errand which bothunderstood and neither needed to explain. 

"Do the words of a song ever torment you, Liza, rising up in your mindagain and again, and refusing to go away?"

"No--why?" said Liza, simply. 

"Nothing--only I can't get a song out of my head today. It comes backand back--

 One lonely foot sounds on the keep, And that's the warder's tread. "

The girls had not gone far when they saw the object of their searchleaning over a low wall, and holding his hands to his eyes as thoughstraining his sight to catch a view of some object in the distance. Simeon Stagg was already acquiring the abandoned look of the man whois outlawed from his fellows. His hair and beard were growing long, shaggy, and unkempt. They were beginning to be frosted with gray. Hisdress was loose; he wore no belt. The haggard expression, natural tohis thin face, had become more marked. 

Sim had not seen the girls, and in the prevailing wind his quick earhad not caught the sound of their footsteps until they were nearlyabreast of him. When he became fully conscious of their presence, Rotha was standing by his side, with her hand on his arm. Liza was apace or two behind. 

"Father, " said Rotha, "are you strong enough to make a long journey?"

Sim had turned his face full on his daughter's with an expression ofmingled shame, contrition, and pride. It was as though his heartyearned for that love which he thought he had forfeited the right toclaim. 

In a few words Rotha explained the turn of events. Sim's agitationoverpowered him. He walked to and fro in short, fitful steps, cryingthat there was no help, no help. 

"I thought I saw three men leading three horses up High Seat frombehind the smithy. It must have been those very taistrels, it must. Iwas looking at them the minute you came up. See, there they are--therebeyond the ghyll on the mere side of yon big bowder. But they'll be atthe top in a crack, that they will--and the best man in Wythburn willbe taken--and there's no help, no help. "

The little man strode up and down, his long, nervous fingers twitchingat his beard. 

"Yes, but there _is_ help, " said Rotha; "there _must_ be. "

"How? How? Tell me--you're like your mother, you are--that was thevery look she had. "

"Tell _me_, first, if Ralph intended to be on Stye Head or WastdaleHead. "

"He did--Stye Head--he left me to go there at daybreak this morning. "

"Then he can be saved, " said the girl firmly. "The mourners mustfollow the path. They have the body and they will go slowly. It willtake them an hour and a half more to reach the foot of the pass. Inthat time Liza and I can cross the fell by Harrop Tarn and Glaramaraand reach the foot, or perhaps the head, of the pass. But this is notenough. The constables will not follow the road taken by the funeral. They know that if Ralph is at the top of Stye Head he will be on thelookout for the procession, and must see them as well as it. "

"It's true, it is, " said Sim. 

"They will, as the blacksmith said, go through Honister and Scarf Gapand over the Black Sail to Wastdale. They will ride fast, and, returning to Stye Head, hope to come upon Ralph from behind andcapture him unawares. Father, " continued Rotha, --and the girl spokewith the determination of a strong man, --"if you go over High Seat, cross the dale, walk past Dale Head, and keep on the far side of theGreat Gable, you will cut off half the journey and be there as soon asthe constables, and you may keep them in sight most of the way. Canyou do this? Have you the strength? You look worn and weak. "

"I can--I have--I'll go at once. It's life or death to the best man inthe world, that it is. "

"There's not a moment to be lost. Liza, we must not delay an instantlonger. "

II. Long before the funeral train had reached the top of the altitude. Ralph had walked over the more rugged parts of the pass, and hadsatisfied himself that there was no danger to be apprehended on thisscore. The ghyll was swollen by the thaw. The waters fell heavily overthe great stones, and sent up clouds of spray, which were quicklydissipated by the wind. Huge hillocks of yellow foam gathered in everysheltered covelet. The roar of the cataract in the ravine silenced thevoice of the tempest that raged above it. 

From the heights of the Great Gable the wind came in all butoverpowering gusts across the top of the pass. Ralph had been thrownoff his feet at one moment by the fierceness of a terrific blast. Itwas the same terrible storm that began on the night of his father'sdeath. Ralph had at first been anxious for the safety of theprocession that was coming, but he had found a more sheltered pathwayunder a deep line of furze bushes, and through this he meant topioneer the procession when it arrived. There was one gap in the furzeat the mouth of a tributary ghyll. The wind was strong in this gap, which seemed like a natural channel to carry it southward; but the gapwas narrow, it would soon be crossed. 

From the desultory labor of such investigations Ralph returned againand again to the head of the great cleft and looked out into thedistance of hills and dales. The long coat he wore fell below hisknees, and was strapped tightly with a girdle. He wore a close-fittingcap, from beneath which his thick hair fell in short wavelets thatwere tossed by the wind. His dog, Laddie, was with him. 

Ralph took up a position within the shelter of a bowlder, and waitedlong, his eyes fixed on the fell six miles down the dale. 

The procession emerged at length. The chill and cheerless morningseemed at once to break into a spring brightness--there at least, ifnot here. Through the leaden wintry sky the sun broke down the hilltopat that instant in a shaft of bright light. It fell like an oasis overthe solemn company walking there. Then the shaft widened and stretchedinto the dale, and then the mists that rolled midway between him andit passed away, and a blue sky was over all. 

III. "Which way now?"

"Well, I reckon there be two roads; maybe you'd like--"

"Which way now? Quick, and no clatter!"

"Then gang your gate down between Dale Head and Grey Knotts as far asHonister. "

"Let's hope you're a better guide than constable, young man, or, asthat old fellow said in the road this morning, we'll fley the bird andnot grip him. Your clattering tongue had served us a scurvy trick, myman; let your head serve us in better stead, or mayhap you'll loseboth--who knows?"

The three men rode as fast as the uncertain pathway between themountains would allow. Mr. Garth mumbled something beneath his breath. He was beginning to wish himself well out of an ungracious business. Not even revenge sweetened by profit could sustain his spirits underthe battery of the combined ridicule and contempt of the men he hadundertaken to serve. 

"A fine wild-goose chase this, " said one of the constables. He had notspoken before, but had toiled along on his horse at the obviousexpenditure of much physical energy and more temper. 

"Grumbling again, Jonathan; when will you be content?" The speaker wasa little man with keen eyes, a supercilious smile, a shrill sharpvoice, and peevish manners. 

"Not while I'm in danger of breaking my neck every step, or being loston a moor nearly as trackless as an ocean, or swallowed up in mistslike the clouds of steam in a century of washing days, or drowned inthe soapsuds of ugly, gaping pits, --tarns you call them, I believe. And all for nothing, too, --not so much as the glint of a bad guineawill we get out of this fine job. "

"Don't be too sure of that, " said the little man. "If this blockheadhere, " with a lurch of the head backwards to where the blacksmith rodebehind, "hasn't blundered in his 'reckonings, ' we'll bag the gameyet. "

"That you never will, mark my words. I've taken the measure of our manbefore to-day. He's enough for fifty such as our precious guide. Iknew what I was doing when I went back last time and left him. "

"Ah, they rather laughed at you then, didn't they?--hinted you were abit afraid, " said the little man, with a cynical smile. 

"They may laugh again, David, if they like; and the man that laughsloudest, let him be the first to come in my place next bout; he'll bewelcome. "

"Well, I must say, this is strange language. I never talked like that, never. It's in contempt of duty, nothing less, " said Constable David. 

"Oh, you're the sort of man that sticks the thing you call duty aboveeverything else--above wife, life, and all the rest of it--and whenduty's done with you it generally sticks you below everything else. I've been a fool in my time, David, but I was never a fool of thatsort. I've never been the dog to drop a good jawful of solids to snapat its shadow. When I've been that dog I've quietly put my meatdown on the plank, and then--There's another break-neckpaving-stone--'bowders' you call them. No horse alive could keepits feet in such country. "

The three men rode some distance in silence. Then the little man, whokept a few yards in front, drew up and said, --

"You say the warrant was not on Wilson's body when you searched it. Isit likely that some of these dalesmen removed it before you camedown?"

"Yes, one dalesman. But that job must have been done when anotherbigger job was done. It wasn't done afterwards. I was down nextmorning. I was sent after the old Scotchman. "

"Didn't it occur to you that the man to whose interest it was to havethat warrant had probably got hold of it?"

"Yes; and that he'd burnt it, too. A man doesn't from choice carry adeath-warrant next his heart. It would make a bad poultice. "

"What now, " cried the little man to the blacksmith, who had beenlistening to the conversation, and in his amazement and confusion hadunconsciously pulled at the reins of his horse, and brought it to astand. 

"What are you gaping at now? Come, go along in front. Is this yourScarf Gap?"

IV. Simeon Stagg had followed the three men closely enough to keep them inview, and yet had kept far enough away to escape identification. Ascending the Bleaberry Fell, he had descended into Watendlath, andcrossed under the "Bowder" stone as the men passed the village ofRosthwaite. He had lost sight of them for a while as they went uptowards Honister, but when he had gained the breast of Grey Knotts hecould clearly descry them two miles away ascending the Scarf Gap. Ifhe could but pass Brandreth before they reached the foot of the BlackSail he would have no fear of being seen, and, what was of moreconsequence, he would have no doubt of being at Stye Head before them. He could then get in between the Kirk Fell and the Great Gable longbefore they could round the Wastdale Head and return to the pass. 

But how weak he felt! How jaded these few miles had made him! Simremembered that he had eaten little for three days. Would his strengthoutlast the task before him? It should; it must do so. Injured bytyranny, the affections of this worn-out outcast among men had, likewind-tossed trees, wound their roots about a rock from which notempest could tear them. 

Sim's step sometimes quickened to a run and sometimes dropped to alabored slouch. The deep declivities, the precipitous ascents, thebroad chasm-like basins, the running streams, the soft turf, had triedsorely the little strength that remained to him. Sometimes he wouldsit for a minute with his long thin hand pressed hard upon his heart;then he would start away afresh, but rather by the impulse ofapprehension than by that of renewed strength. 

Yes, he was now at the foot of Brandreth, and the horses and theirriders had not emerged above the Scarf. How hot and thirsty he felt!

Here stood a shepherd's cottage, the first human habitation he hadpassed since he left Watendlath. Should he ask for some milk? It wouldrefresh and sustain him. As Sim stood near the gate of the cottage, doubtful whether to go in or go on, the shepherd's wife came out. Would she give him a drink of milk? Yes, and welcome. The woman lookedclosely at him, and Sim shrank under her steady gaze. He was too farfrom Wythburn to be dogged by the suspicion of crime, yet hisconscience tormented him. Did all the world, then, know that SimeonStagg would have been a murderer if he could--that in fact he hadcommitted murder in his heart? Could he never escape from the unspokenreproach? No; not even on the heights of these solitary hills!

The woman turned about and went into the house for the milk. While shewas gone, Sim stood at the gate. In an instant the thought of his ownnecessities, his own distresses, gave place to the thought of RalphRay's. At that instant he turned his eyes again to the Scarf Gap. Thethree men had covered the top, and were on the more level side of thehill, riding hard down towards Ennerdale. They would be upon him inten minutes more. 

The woman was coming from her house with a cup of milk in her hand;but, without waiting to accept of it, Sim started away and ran at hisutmost speed over the fell. The woman stood with the cup in her hand, watching the thin figure vanishing in the distance, and wondering ifit had been an apparition. 

V. "You can't understand why Mr. Wilfrey Lawson is so keen to lay handson this man Ray?" said Constable David. 

"That I cannot, " said Constable Jonathan. 

"Why, isn't it enough that he was in the trained bands of theParliament?"

"Enough for the King--and this new law of Puritan extermination--yes;for Master Wilfrey--no. Besides, the people can't stand this hangingof the old Puritan soldiers much longer. The country had been worriedand flurried by the Parliament, and cried out like a wearied man forrest--any sort of rest--and it has got it--got it with a vengeance. But there's no rest more restless than that of an active man exceptthat of an active country, and England won't put up with thisbutchering of men to-day for doing what was their duty yesterday--yes, their duty, for that's what you call it. "

"So you think Master Wilfrey means to set a double trap for Ray?"

"I don't know what he means; but he doesn't hunt down a commonRoundhead out of thousands with nothing but 'duty' in his head; that'snot Master Wilfrey Lawson's way. "

"But this man was a captain of the trained bands latterly, " said thelittle constable. "Fellow, " he cried to Mr. Garth, who rode alongmoodily enough in front of them, "did this Ray ever brag to you ofwhat he did as captain in the army?"

"What was he? Capt'n? I never heard on't, " growled the blacksmith. 

"Brag--pshaw! He's hardly the man for that, " said Constable Jonathan. 

"I mind they crack't of his saving the life of old Wilson, " said Mr. Garth, growling again. 

"And if he took it afterwards, what matter?" said Constable Jonathan, with an expression of contempt. "Push on, there. Here we're at thetop. Is it down now? What's that below? A house, truly--a house atlast. Who's that running from it? We must be near our trysting place. Is that our man? Come, if we are to do this thing, let us do it. "

"It's the fellow Ray, to a certainty, " said the little man, prickinghis horse into a canter as soon as he reached the first fields ofEnnerdale. 

In a few minutes the three men had drawn up at the cottage on thebreast of Brandreth where Sim had asked for a drink. 

"Mistress! Hegh! hegh! Who was the man that left you just now?"

"I dunnet know wha't war--some feckless body, I'm afeart. He was a'wizzent and savvorless. He begged ma a drink o' milk, but lang ere acud cum tul him he was gane his gate like yan dazt-like. "

"Who could this be? It's not our man clearly. Who could it be, blacksmith?"

The gentleman addressed had turned alternately white and red at thewoman's description. There had flashed upon his brain the idea thatlittle Lizzie Branthwaite had betrayed him. 

"I reckon it must have been that hang-gallows of a tailor--that Sim, "he said, perspiring from head to foot. 

"And he's here to carry tidings of our coming. Push on--follow theman--heed this blockhead no longer. "

VI. The procession of mourners, with Robbie Anderson and the mare at itshead, had walked slowly down Borrowdale after the men on foot hadturned back towards Withburn. Following the course of the windingDerwent, they had passed the villages of Stonethwaite and Seathwaite, and in two hours from the time they set out from Shoulthwaite they hadreached the foot of Stye Head Pass. The brightness of noon had nowgiven place to the chill leaden atmosphere of a Cumbrian December. 

In the bed of the dale they were sheltered from the wind, but they sawthe mists torn into long streaks overhead, and knew that the storm hadnot abated. When they came within easy range of the top of the greatgap between the mountains over which they were to pass, they saw for amoment a man's figure clearly outlined against the sky. 

"He's yonder, " thought Robbie, and urged on the mare with her burden. He remembered that Ralph had said, "Chain the young horse to the mareat the bottom of the pass, " and he did so. Before going far, however, he found this new arrangement impeded rather than accelerated theirprogress. 

"The pass has too many ins and outs for this, " he thought, and heunchained the horses. Then they went up the ravine with the loud ghyllboiling into foam at one side of them. 

VII. "I cannot go farther, Rotha. I must sit down. My foot is swelling. Thebandage is bursting it. "

"Try, my girl; only try a little longer: only hold out five minutesmore; only five short minutes, and we may be there. "

"It's of no use trying, " said Liza with a whimper; "I've tried andtried; I must sit down or I shall faint. " The girl dropped down on tothe grass and began to untie a linen bandage that was about her ankle. 

"O dear! O dear! There they are, more than half-way up the pass. They'll be at the top in ten minutes! And there's Ralph; yes, I cansee him and the dog. What shall we do? What _can_ we do?"

"Go and leave me and come back--no, no, not that either; don't leaveme in this place, " said Liza, crying piteously and moaning with thepain of a sprained foot. 

"Impossible, " said Rotha. "I might never find you again on thispathless fell. "

"Oh, that unlucky stone!" whimpered Liza, "I'm bewitched, surely. It'sthat Mother Garth--"

"Ah, he sees us, " said Rotha. She was standing on a piece of rock andwaving a scarf in the wind. "Yes, he sees us and answers. But whatwill he understand by that? O dear! O dear! Would that I could makeWilly see, or Robbie--perhaps _they_ would know. Where can father be?O where?"

A terrible sense of powerlessness came upon Rotha as she stood besideher prostrate companion within sight of the goal she had labored togain, and the strong-hearted girl burst into a flood of tears. 

VIII. Yes, from the head of the pass Ralph Ray saw the scarf that was wavedby Rotha, but he was too far away to recognize the girls. 

"Two women, and one of them lying, " he thought; "there has been anaccident. "

Where he stood the leaden sky had broken into a drizzling rain, whichwas being driven before the wind in clouds like mist. It was soakingthe soft turf, and lying heavy on the thick moss that coated everysheltered stone. 

"Slipt a foot, no doubt, " thought Ralph. "I must ride over to themwhen the horses come up and have crossed the pass; I cannot gobefore. "

The funeral train was now in sight. In a few minutes more it would beat his side. Yes, there was Robbie Anderson leading the mare. He hadnot chained the young horse, but that could be done at this point. Itshould have been done at the bottom, however. How had Robbie forgottenit?

Ralph's grave face became yet more grave as he looked down at thesolemn company approaching him. Willy had recognized him. See, hishead drooped as he sat in the saddle. At this instant Ralph thought nolonger of the terrible incidents and the more terrible revelations ofthe past few days. He thought not at all of the untoward fortune thathad placed him where he stood. He saw only the white burden that wasstrapped to the mare, and thought only of him with whom his earliestmemories were entwined. 

Raising his head, and dashing the gathering tears from his eyes, hesaw one of the women on the hill opposite running towards him andcrying loudly, as if in fear; but the wind carried away her voice, andhe could not catch her words. 

From her gestures, however, he gathered that something had occurredbehind him. No harm to the funeral train could come of their followingon a few paces, and Ralph turned about and walked rapidly upwards. Then the woman's voice seemed louder and shriller than ever, andappeared to cry in an agony of distress. 

Ralph turned again and stood. Had he mistaken the gesture? Hadsomething happened to the mourners? No, the mare walked calmly up thepass. What could it mean? Still the shrill cry came to him, and stillthe words of it were borne away by the wind. Something waswrong--something serious. He must go farther and see. 

Then in an instant he became conscious that Simeon Stagg was runningtowards him with a look of terror. Close behind him were two men, mounted, and a third man rode behind them. Sim was being pursued. Hisfrantic manner denoted it. Ralph did not ask himself why. He rantowards Sim. Quicker than speech, and before Sim had recovered breath, Ralph had swung himself about, caught the bridles of both horses, andby the violent lurch had thrown both riders from their seats. Butneither seemed hurt. Leaping to their feet together, they bounded downupon Ralph, and laying firm hold upon him tried to manacle him. 

Then, with the first moment of reflection, the truth flashed upon him. It was he who had been pursued, and he had thrown himself into thearms of his pursuers. 

They were standing by the gap in the furze bushes. The mourners wereat the top of the pass, and they saw what had happened. RobbieAnderson was coming along faster with the mare. The two men saw thathelp for their prisoner was at hand. They dropped the manacles, andtried to throw Ralph on to the back of one of their horses. Sim wasdragging their horse away. The dog was barking furiously and tearingat their legs. But they were succeeding: they were overpowering him;they had him on the ground. 

Now, they were all in the gap of the furze bushes, struggling in theshallow stream. Robbie dropped the reins of the mare, and ran toRalph's aid. At that moment a mighty gust of wind came down from thefell, and swept through the channel. It caught the mare, and startledby the loud cries of the men and the barking of the dog, andaffrighted by the tempest, she started away at a terrific gallop overthe mountains, with the coffin on her back. 

"The mare, the mare!" cried Ralph, who had seen the accident as Robbiedropped the reins; "for God's sake, after her!"

The strength of ten men came into his limbs at this. He rose fromwhere the men held him down, and threw them from him as if they hadbeen green withes that he snapped asunder. They fell on either side, and lay where they fell. Then he ran to where the young horse stood afew paces away, and lifting the boy from the saddle leapt into ithimself. In a moment he was galloping after the mare. 

But she had already gone far. She was flying before the wind towardsthe great dark pikes in the distance. Already the mists were obscuringher. Ralph followed on and on, until the company that stood as thoughparalyzed on the pass could see him no mere. 

CHAPTER XIII. A 'BATABLE POINT. 

When Constable David tried to rise after that fall, he discovered toomany reasons to believe that his leg had been broken. ConstableJonathan had fared better as to wind and limb, but upon regaining hisfeet he found the voice of duty silent within him as to the necessityof any further action such as might expose him to more seriousdisabilities. With the spirit of the professional combatant, he ratheradmired the prowess of their adversary, and certainly bore him noill-will because he had vanquished them. 

"The man's six foot high if he's an inch, and has the strength of anox, " he said, as he bent over his coadjutor and inquired into thenature of his bruises. 

Constable David seemed disposed to exhibit less of the resignation ofa brave humility that can find solace and even food for self-flatteryin defeat, than of the vexation of a cowardly pride that cannotreconcile itself to a stumble and a fall. 

"It all comes of that waistrel Mister Burn-the-wind, " he said, meaningto indicate the blacksmith by this contemptuous allusion to thatgentleman's profession. 

Constable Jonathan could not forbear a laugh at the name, and at theidea it suggested. 

"Ay, but if he'd burned the wind this time instead of blowing it, " hesaid, "we might have raised it between us. Come, let me raise you intothis saddle instead. Hegh, hegh, though, " he continued, as the horselurched from him with every gust, "no need to raise the wind up here. Easy--there--you're right now, I think. You'll need to ride on onestirrup. "

It was perhaps natural that the constabulary view of the disastershould be limited to the purely legal aspect of the loss of aprisoner; but the subject of the constable's reproaches was not so fardominated by official ardor as to be insensible to the terribleaccident of the flight of the horse with the corpse. Mr. Garth hadbrought his own horse to a stand at some twenty paces from the spotwhere Ralph Ray had thrown his companions from their saddles, and inthe combat ensuing he had not experienced any unconquerable impulse toparticipate on the side of what stood to him for united revenge andprofit, if not for justice also. When, in the result, the mare fledover the fells, he sat as one petrified until Robbie Anderson, who hadearlier recovered from his own feeling of stupefaction, and in thefirst moment of returning consciousness had recognized the blacksmithand guessed the sequel of the rencontre, brought him up to a verylively sense of the situation by bringing him down to his full lengthon the ground with the timely administration of a well-planted blow. Mr. Garth was probably too much taken by surprise to repay theobligation in kind, but he rapped out a volley of vigorous oaths thatfell about his adversary as fast as a hen could peck. Then heremounted his horse, and, with such show of valorous reluctance ascould still be assumed after so unequivocal an overthrow, he made thebest of haste away. 

He was not yet, however, entirely rewarded for his share in the day'sproceedings. He had almost reached Wythburn on his return home when hehad the singular ill-fortune to encounter Liza. That young damsel washuddled, rather than seated, on the back of a horse, the property ofone of the mourners whom Rotha had succeeded in hailing to theirrescue. With Rhoda walking by her side, she was now plodding alongtowards the city in a temper primed by the accidents of the day to acondition of the highest irascibility. As a matter of fact, Liza, inher secret heart, was chiefly angry with herself for the reckless leapover a big stone that had given the sprained ankle, under the pains ofwhich she now groaned; but it was due to the illogical instincts ofher sex that she could not consciously take so Spartan a view of herposition as to blame herself for what had happened. 

It was at this scarcely promising juncture of accident and temper thatshe came upon the blacksmith, and at the first sight of him all thebitterness of feeling that had been brewing and fermenting within her, and in default of a proper object had been discharged on the horse, onthe saddle, on the roads, and even on Rotha, found a full andmagnificent outlet on the person of Mr. Joseph Garth. 

While that gentleman had been jogging along homewards he had beenfostering uncomfortable sentiments of spite respecting the "laalhussy" who had betrayed him. He had been mentally rehearsing thewithering reproaches and yet more withering glances which he meant tolaunch forth upon her when next it should be her misfortune to crosshis path. Such disloyalty, such an underhand way of playing double, seemed to Mr. Garth deserving of any punishment short of that physicalone which it would be most enjoyable to inflict, but which it mightnot, with that Robbie in the way, be quite so pleasant to standresponsible for. Perhaps it was due to an illogical instinct of theblacksmith's sex that his conscience did not trouble him when he wasconcocting these pains and penalties for duplicity. Certainly, whenthe two persons in question came face to face at the turning of thepack-horse road towards the city, logic played an infinitesimal partin their animated intercourse. 

Mr. Garth meant to direct a scorching sneer as silent preamble to hisdiscourse; but owing to the fact that Robbie's blow had fallen aboutthe blacksmith's eyes, and that those organs had since become sensiblyeclipsed by a prodigious and discolored swelling, what was meant for awithering glance looked more like a meaningless grin. At this apparentlevity under her many distresses, Liza's wrath rose to boiling point, and she burst out upon Mr. Joseph with more of the home-spun of thecountry-side than ever fell from her lips in calmer moments. 

"Thoo dummel-head, thoo, " she said, "thoo'rt as daft as a besom. Thoo_hes_ made a botch on't, thoo blatherskite. Stick that in thy gizzern, and don't thoo go bumman aboot like a bee in a bottle--thoo Judas, thoo. "

Mr. Garth was undoubtedly taken by surprise this time. To be attackedin such a way by the very person he meant to attack, to be accountedthe injurer by the very person who, he thought, had injured him, sufficed to stagger the blacksmith's dull brains. 

"Nay, nay, " he said, when he had recovered his breath; "who's theJudas?--that's a 'batable point, I reckon. "

"Giss!" cried Liza, without waiting to comprehend the significance ofthe insinuation, and--like a true woman--not dreaming that a charge ofdisloyalty could be advanced against her, --"giss! giss!"--the call toswine--"thoo'rt thy mother's awn son--the witch. "

Utterly deprived of speech by this maidenly outburst of vituperation, Mr. Garth lost all that self-control which his quieter judgment hadrecognized as probably necessary to the safety of his own person. White with anger, he raised his hand to strike Liza, who thereupondrew up, and, giving him a vigorous slap on each cheek, said, "Keepthy neb oot of that, thoo bummeller, and go fratch with RobbieAnderson--I hear he dinged thee ower, thoo sow-faced 'un. "

The mention of this name served as a timely reminder to Mr. Garth, whodropped his arm and rode away, muttering savagely under his breath. 

"Don't come hankerin' after me again, " cried Liza (ratherunnecessarily) after his vanishing figure. 

This outburst was at least serviceable in discharging all theill-nature from the girl's breast; and when she had watched theblacksmith until he had disappeared, she replied to Rotha'sremonstrances as so much scarcely girl-like abuse by a burst of theheartiest girlish laughter. 

 * * * * *

There was much commotion at the Red Lion that night. The "maister men"who had left the funeral procession at Watendlath made their way firstto the village inn, intending to spend there the hours that mustintervene before the return of the mourners to Shoulthwaite. They hadnot been long seated over their pots when the premature arrival ofJohn Jackson and some of the other dalesmen who had been "sett" on theway to Gosforth led to an explanation of the disaster that hadoccurred on the pass. The consternation of the frequenters of the RedLion, as of the citizens of Wythburn generally, was as great as theirsurprise. Nothing so terrible had happened within their experience. They had the old Cumbrian horror of an accident to the dead. Noprospect was dearer to their hope than that of a happy death, and noreflection was more comforting than that one day they would have asuitable burial. Neither of these had Angus had. A violent end, and nograve at all; nothing but this wild ride across the fells that mightlast for days or months. There was surely something of Fate in it. 

The dalesmen gathered about the fire at the Red Lion with the silencethat comes of awe. 

"A sad hap, this, " said Reuben Thwaite, lifting both hands. 

"I reckon we must all turn out at the edge of the dawn to-morrow, andsee what we can do to find old Betsy, " said Mr. Jackson. 

Matthew Branthwaite's sagest saws had failed him. Such a contingencyas this had never been foreseen by that dispenser of proverbs. It hadlifted him out of himself. Matthew's sturdy individualism might havetaken the form of liberalism, or perhaps materialism, if it hadappeared two centuries later; but in the period in which his yearswere cast, the art of keeping close to the ground had not been fullylearned. Matthew was filled with a sentiment which he neither knew norattempted to define. At least he was sure that the mare was not to becaught. It was to be a dispensation somehow and someway that the horseshould gallop over the hills with its dead burden to its back fromyear's end to year's end. When Mr. Jackson suggested that they shouldstart out in search of it, Matthew said, --

"Nay, John, nowt of the sort. Ye may gang ower the fell, but ye'll gitna Betsy. It's as I telt thee; it's a Fate. It'll be a tale for iv'rymother to flyte childer with. "

"The wind did come with a great bouze, " said John. "It must have beenthe helm-wind, for sure; yet I cannot mind that I saw the helm-bar. Never in my born days did I see a horse go off with such a burr. "

"And you could not catch hold on it, any of you, ey?" asked one of thecompany with a shadow of a sneer. 

"Shaf! dost thoo think yon fell's like a blind lonnin?" said Matthew. 

"Nay, but it's a bent place, " continued Mr. Jackson. "How it dizziedand dozzled, too! And what a fratch yon was! My word! but Ralph didding them over, both of them!"

"He favors his father, does Ralph, " said Matthew. 

"Ey! he's his father's awn git, " chimed Reuben. "But that Joe Garth isa merry-begot, I'll swear. "

"Shaf! he hesn't a bit of nater intil him, nowther back nor end. He'snow't but riffraff, " said Matthew. Ralph Ray's peril and escape wereincidents too unimportant to break the spell of the accident to thebody of his father. 

Robbie Anderson turned in late in the evening. 

"Here's a sorry home coming, " he said as he entered. 

It was easy to see that Robbie was profoundly agitated. His eyes wereaflame; he rose and sat, walked a pace or two and stood, passed hisfingers repeatedly through his short curly beard, slapped his knee, and called again and again for ale. When he spoke of the accident onthe fell, he laughed with a wild effort at a forced and unnaturalgayety. 

"It's all along of my being dintless, so it is, " he muttered, afterlittle Reuben Thwaite had repeated for some fresh batch of inquirersthe story, so often told, of how the mare took to flight, and of howRalph leaped on to the young horse in pursuit of it. 

"All along of you, Robbie; how's that, man?"

"If I'd chained the young horse at the bottom of the hill there wouldhave been no mare to run away, none. "

"It's like that were thy orders, then, Robbie?"

"It were that, damn me, it were--the schoolmaster there, he knows it. "

"Ralph told him to do it; I heard him myself, " said Monsey, from hisplace in the chimney-nook, where he sat bereft of his sportive spirit, yet quite oblivious of the important part which his own loquacity hadunwittingly played in the direful tragedy. 

"But never bother now. Bring me more ale, mistress: quick now, mylass. "

Robbie had risen once more, and was tramping across the floor in hisexcitement. "What's come over Robbie?" whispered Reuben to Matthew. "What fettle's he in--doldrums, I reckon. "

"Tak na note on him. Robbie's going off agen I'm afeart. He's brokenloose. This awesome thing is like to turn the lad's heed, for he'd thesay ower it all. "

"Come, lass, quick with the ale. "

"Ye've had eneuf, Robbie, " said the hostess. "Go thy ways home. Thoufindst the beer very heady, lad. Thou shalt have more in the morning. "

"To-night, lass; I must have some to-night, that I must. "

"Robbie _is_ going off agen, surely, " whispered Reuben. "It's a sorrysight when yon lad takes to the drink. He'll be deed drunk soon. "

"Say nowt to him, " answered Matthew. "He's fair daft to-neet. "

The evening was far advanced when the dalesmen rose to go. 

"Our work's cut out for us in the morning, men. " said John Jackson. "Let's off to our beds. "

CHAPTER XIV. UNTIL THE DAY BREAK. 

Until the day break, and the shadows flee away. 

It was not at first that Ralph was a prey to sentiments of horror. Hisphysical energy dominated all emotion, and left no room for terribleimaginings--no room for a full realization of what had occurred. Thatwhich appeared to paralyze the others--that which by its ghastlyreality appeared to fix them to the earth with the rigidity ofstone--endowed him with a power that seemed all but superhuman, andinspired him with an impulse that leapt to its fulfilment. 

Mounted on the young horse, he galloped after the mare along the longrange of the pikes, in and out of their deep cavernous alcoves, up anddown their hillocks and hollows, over bowlders, over streams, acrossghylls, through sinking sloughs and with a drizzling rain overhead. Atone moment he caught sight of the mare and her burden as they passedswiftly over a protruding headland which was capped from his point ofview by nothing but the mist and the sky. Then he followed on theharder; but faster than his horse could gallop over the pathlessmountains galloped the horse of which he was in pursuit. He could seethe mare no more. Yet he rode on and on. 

When he reached the extremity of the dark range and stood at thatpoint where Great Howe fringes downward to the plain, he turned aboutand rode back on the opposite side of the pikes. Once more he rode inand out of cavernous alcoves, up and down hillocks and hollows, overbowlders, over streams, across rivers, through sinking sloughs, andstill with a drizzling rain overhead. The mare was nowhere to be seen. 

Then he rode on to where the three ranges of mountains meet at AngleTarn and taking first the range nearest the pikes he rode under theBow Fell, past the Crinkle Crags to the Three-Shire Stones at the footof Greyfriars, where the mountains slope downward to the Duddonvalley. Still the mare was nowhere to be seen. 

Returning then to the Angle Tarn, he followed the only remaining rangepast the Pike of Stickle until he looked into the black depths of theDungeon Ghyll. And still the mare was nowhere to be seen. Fear wasbehind her, and only by fear could she be overtaken. It was at abouttwo o'clock in the afternoon that the disaster had occurred. It wasnow fully three hours later, and the horse Ralph rode, fatigued andwellnigh spent, was slipping its feet in the gathering darkness. Heturned its head towards Wythburn, and rode down to the city by HarropTarn. 

At the first house--it was Luke Cockrigg's, and it stood on the bankabove the burn--he left the horse, and borrowed a lantern. The familywould have dissuaded him from an attempt to return to the fells, buthe was resolved. There was no reasoning against the resolutionpictured on his rigid and cadaverous countenance. 

The drizzling rain still fell and the night had closed in when Ralphset his face afresh towards the mountains. 

And now the sickening horrors of sentiment overtook him, for now hehad time to reflect upon what had occurred. The figure of theriderless horse flying with its dead burden before the wind had fixeditself on his imagination; and while the darkness was concealing thephysical surroundings, it was revealing the phantasm in the glimmeringoutlines of every rock and tree. Look where he would, peering long anddeep into the blackness of a night without moon or stars, withoutcloud or sky, with only a blank density around and about, Ralph seemedto see in fitful flashes that came and went--now on the right and nowon the left of him, now in front and now behind, now on the earth athis feet and now in the dumb vapor floating above him--the spectre ofthat riderless horse. Sometimes he would stop and listen, thinking heheard a horse canter close past him; but no, it was the noise of ahidden river as its waters leapt over the stones. Sometimes he thoughthe heard the neigh of a horse in the distance; but no, it was only thewhinny of the wind. His dog had followed close behind him when he fledfrom the pass, and it was still at his heels. Sometimes Laddie woulddart away and be lost for a few minutes in the darkness. Then thedog's muffled bark would be heard, and Ralph's blood would seem tostand still with a dread apprehension that dared not to take the nameof hope. No; it was only a sheep that had strayed from its fold, andhad taken shelter from wind and rain beneath a stone in a narrowcleft, and was now sending up into the night the pitiful cry of a lostand desolate creature. 

No, no, no; nowhere would the hills give up the object of his search;and Ralph walked on and on with a heart that sank and still sank. 

He knew these trackless uplands as few knew them, and not even theabstraction of mind that came with these solitary hours caused him anuncertain step. On and on, through the long dark night, to the StyeHead once more, and again along the range of the rugged pikes, callingthe mare by the half-articulate cry she knew so well, and listeningfor her answering neigh, but hearing only the surging of the wind orthe rumble of the falling ghyll; then on and on, and still on. 

When the earliest gleams of light flecked the east, Ralph was standingat the head of the Screes. Slowly the gray bars stretched across thesky, wider and more wide, brighter and more bright, now changed toyellow and now to pink, chasing the black walls of darkness that diedaway on every side. In the basin below, at the foot of the steepScrees, whose sides rumbled with rolling stones, lay the black mere, half veiled by the morning mist. Still veiled, too, were the dales ofIreton, but far away, across the undulating plains through which theriver rambled, flowed the wide Western Sea, touched at its utmost barby the silvery light of the now risen sun. 

Ralph turned about and walked back, with the flush of the skyreflected on his pale and stony face. His lantern, not yetextinguished, burned small and feeble in his hand. Another night wasbreaking to another day; another and another would yet break, and allthe desolation of a heart, the ruin of many hearts--what was it beforeNature's unswerving and unalterable course! The phantasms of a nightthat had answered to his hallucinations were as nothing to therealities of a morning whose cruel light showed him only more plainlythe blackness of his despair. 

The sentiments of horror which now possessed him were more terriblebecause more spiritual than before. To know no sepulture! The idea washorrible in itself, horrible in its association with an old Hebrewcurse more remorseless than the curse of Cain, most horrible of allbecause to Ralph's heightened imagination it seemed to be a symbol--asymbol of retribution past and to come. 

Yes, it was as he had thought, as he had half thought; God's hand wason him--on him of all others, and on others only through him. Havingonce conceived this idea in its grim totality, having once fullyreceived the impress of it from the violence and suddenness of aghastly occurrence, Ralph seemed to watch with completeself-consciousness the action of the morbid fancy on his mind. Hetraced it back to the moment when the truth (or what seemed to him thetruth) touching the murder of Wilson had been flashed upon him by alook from Simeon Stagg. He traced it yet farther back to that night atDunbar, when, at the prompting of what he mistook for mercy, he hadsaved the life of the enemy that was to wreck his own life and thelives of all that were near and dear to him. To his tortured soulguilt seemed everywhere about him, whether his own guilt or the guiltof others, was still the same; and now God had given this dreaddisaster for a sign that vengeance was His, that retribution had comeand would come. 

Was it the dream of an overpowered imagination--the nightmare of adistempered fancy? Yet it would not be shaken off. It had bathed thewhole world in another light--a lurid light. 

Ralph walked fast over the fells, snatching at sprigs of heather, plucking the slim boughs from the bushes, pausing sometimes to looklong at a stone, or a river, or a path that last night appeared to beas familiar to him as the palm of his hand, and had suddenly becomestrange and a mystery. The shadow of a supernatural presence hung overall. 

Throughout that day he walked about the fells, looking for theriderless horse, and calling to it, but neither expecting to see norto hear it. He saw once and again the people of Wythburn abroad on theerrand that kept him abroad, but they never came within hail, and astifling sense of shame kept him apart, none the less that he knew notwherefore such shame should fall on him, all the same that they knewnot that it had fallen. 

The day would come when all men would see that God's hand was on him. 

Yes, Ralph; but when that day does indeed come, then all men shallalso see that whom God's hand rests on has God at his right hand. 

When the darkness was closing in upon a second night, Ralph wasdescending High Seat towards Shoulthwaite Moss. Behind him lagged thejaded dog, walking a few paces with drooping head and tail; then lyingfor a minute, and rising to walk languidly again. 

CHAPTER XV. RALPH'S SACRIFICE. 

When he reached the old house, Ralph was prepared for the results ofany further disaster, for disaster had few further results for whichit was needful to prepare. A light burned in the kitchen, and anotherin that room above it where lately his father had lain. When Ralphentered, Willy Ray was seated before the fire, his hand in the hand ofRotha, who sat by his side. On every feature of his pallid face weretraces of suffering. 

"What of mother?" said Ralph huskily, his eyes traversing the kitchen. 

Willy rose and put his hand on Ralph's shoulder. "We will gotogether, " he said, and they walked towards the stair that led to thefloor above. 

There she lay, the mother of these stricken sons, unconscious of theirsufferings, unconscious of her own. Yet she lived. Since the terribleintelligence had reached her of what had happened on the pass she hadremained in this state of insensibility, being stricken into suchtorpidity by the shock of the occurrence. Willy's tears fell fast ashe stood by the bed, and his anguish was subdued thereby to a quietermood. Ralph's sufferings were not so easily fathomable. He stooped andkissed the unconscious face without relaxing a muscle in the settledfixity of his own face. Leaving his brother in the room, he returnedto the kitchen. How strange the old place looked to him now! Hadeverything grown strange? There were the tall clock in the corner, thebig black worm-eaten oak cabinet, half-cupboard, half-drawers; therewas the long table like a rock of granite; there was the spinningwheel in the neuk window; and there were the whips and the horns onthe rafters overhead--yet how unfamiliar it all seemed to be!

Rotha was hastily preparing supper for him. He sat on the settle thatwas drawn up before the fire, and threw off his heavy and soddenshoes. His clothes, which had been saturated by the rain of thepreceding night, had dried upon his back. He was hungry; he had hoteaten since yesterday at midday; and when food was put upon the tablehe ate with the voracious appetite that so often follows upon a longperiod of mental distress. 

As he sat at his supper, his eyes followed constantly the movements ofthe girl, who was busied about him in the duties of the household. Itwere not easy to say with what passion or sentiment his heart wasstruggling with respect to her. He saw her as a hope gone from him, ajoy not to be grasped, a possible fulfilment of that part of hisnature which was never to be fulfilled. And she? Was she conscious ofany sentiment peculiar to herself respecting this brave rude man, whose heart was tender enough to be drawn towards her and yet strongenough to be held apart at the awful bidding of an iron fate? Perhapsnot. She in turn felt drawn towards him; she knew the force of afeeling that made him a centre of her thoughts, a point round whichher deeper emotions insensibly radiated. But this was associated inher mind with no idea of love. If affection touched her at all, perhaps at this moment it went out where her pity--rather, herpride--first found play. Perhaps Ralph seemed too high above her toinspire her love. His brother's weaker, more womanly nature camecloser within her range. 

There was now a long silence between them. 

"Rotha, " said Ralph at length, "this will be my last night at theMoss; the last for a long time, at least--I didn't expect to be hereto-night. Can you promise one thing, my girl? It won't be hard for younow--not very hard _now_. " He paused. 

"What is it, Ralph?" said Rotha, in a voice of apprehension. 

"Only that you won't leave the old house while my mother lives. "

Rotha dropped her head. She thought of the lonely cottage at Fornside, and of him who should live there. Ralph divined the thought that waswritten in her face. 

"Get him to come here if you can, " he said. "He could help Willy withthe farm. "

"He would not come, " she said. "I'm afraid he would not. "

"Then neither will he return to Fornside. Promise me that while shelives--it can't be long, Rotha, it may be but too short--promise methat you'll make this house your home. "

"My first duty is to him, " said Rotha with her hand to her eyes. 

"True--that's true, " said Ralph; and the sense that two homes weremade desolate silenced him with something that stole upon him likestifling shame. There was only one way out of the difficulty, and thatwas to make two homes one. If she loved his brother, as he knew thathis brother loved her, then--

"Rotha, " said Ralph, with a perceptible tremulousness of voice, "I will ask you another question, and, perhaps--who knowsrightly?--perhaps it is harder for me to ask than for you to answer;but you will answer me--will you not?--for I ask you solemnly and withthe light of Heaven on my words--on the most earnest words, I think, that ever came out of my heart. "

He paused again. Rotha sat on the end of the settle, and with fingersintertwined, with eyelids quivering and lips trembling, she gazed insilence into the fire. 

"This is no time for idle vanities, " he said; "it's no time to indulgeunreal modesties; and you have none of either if it were. God has laidHis hand on us all, Rotha; yes, and our hearts are open withoutdisguise before Him--and before each other, too, I think. "

"Yes, " said Rotha. She scarcely knew what to say, or whither Ralph'swords tended. She only knew that he was speaking as she had neverheard him speak before. "Yes, Ralph, " she repeated. 

"Perhaps, as I say, it's harder for me to ask than for you to answer, Rotha, " he continued, and the strong man looked into the girl's eyeswith a world of tenderness. "Do you think you have any feeling forWilly--that is, more than the common? I saw how you sat together as Icame in to you. I've marked you before, when he has been by. I'vemarked him, too. You've been strength and solace to him in thistrouble. Do you think if he loved you, Rotha--do you think, then, youcould love him? Wait, " he added, as she raised her eyes, and withparted lips seemed prepared to speak. "It is not for him I ask. Godknows it is as much for you as for him, and perhaps--perhaps, I say, most of all--for myself. "

With a frank voice and face, with luminous eyes in which there wasneither fear nor shame, Rotha answered, --

"Yes, I could love him; I think I do so now. "

She spoke to Ralph as she might have spoken to a father whom shereverenced, and from whom no secret of her soul should be hid. Heheard her in silence. Not until now, not until he had heard her lastword, had he realized what it would cost him to hear it. The agony ofa lifetime seemed crushed into that short moment. But he had made itfor himself, and now at length it was over. To yield her up--perhapsit was a link in the chain of retribution. To say nothing of his ownlove--perhaps it would be accepted as a dumb atonement. To see her winthe love and be won by the love of his brother--perhaps it wouldsoften his exile with thoughts of recompense for a wrong that it hadbeen his fate to do to her and hers, though she knew it not. There wassomething like the white heat of subdued passion in his voice when hespoke again. 

"He _does_ love you, Rotha, " he said quietly, "and he will ask you tobe his wife. But he cannot do so yet, and, meantime, while my motherlives--while I am gone--God knows where--while I am away from the oldhome--I ask you now once more to stay. "

The great clock in the corner ticked out loud in the silence of thenext minute; only that and the slow breathing of the dog sleeping onthe hearth fell on the ear. 

"Yes, I will stay, " said the girl; and while she spoke Willy Raywalked into the kitchen. 

Then they talked together long and earnestly, these three, under theshadow of the terrible mystery that hung above them all, of life anddeath. Ralph spoke as one overawed by a sense of fatality. The worldand its vicissitudes had left behind engraven on his heart a messageand lesson, and it was not altogether a hopeful one. He saw that fatehung by a thread; that our lives are turned on the pivot of some merechance; that, traced back to their source, all our joys and all oursorrows appear to come of some accident no more momentous than a wordor a look. In solemn tones he seemed to say that there is aplague-spot of evil at the core of this world and this life, and thatit infects everything. We may do our best--we should do our best--butwe are not therefore to expect reward. Perhaps that reward will cometo us while we live. More likely it will be the crown laid on ourgrave. Happy are we if our loves find fulfilment--if no curse restsupon them. Should we hope on? He hardly knew. Destiny works her ownway!

Thus they talked in that solitary house among the mountains. They satfar into the night, these rude sons and this daughter of the hills, groping in their own uncertain, unlearned way after solutions oflife's problems that wiser heads than theirs ages on ages before andsince have never compassed, shouting for echoes into the voicelesscaverns of the world's great and awful mysteries. 

CHAPTER XVI. AT SUNRISE ON THE RAISE. 

 The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel. 

At sunrise the following morning two men walked through Wythburntowards the hillock known as the Raise, down the long road that led tothe south. The younger man had attained to the maturity of fullmanhood. Brawny and stalwart, with limbs that strode firmly over theground; with an air of quiet and reposeful power; with a steadilypoised head; with a full bass voice, soft, yet deep; with a face thathad for its utmost beauty the beauty of virile strength andresolution, softened, perhaps, into tenderness of expression bywashing in the waters of sorrow, --such, now, was Ralph Ray. Over ajerkin he wore the long sack coat, belted and buckled, of the dalesmenof his country. Beneath a close-fitting goatskin cap his short, wavyhair lay thick and black. A pack was strapped about him from shoulderto waist. He carried the long staff of a mountaineer. 

Were there in the wide world of varying forms and faces a form and aface so much unlike his own as were those of the man who walked, nay, jerked along, in short, fitful paces, by his side? Little and slight, with long thin gray hair and dishevelled beard, with the startled eyesof a frighted fawn, and with its short, fearful glances, with a sharpface, worn into deep ridges that changed their shape with every stepand every word, with nervous, twitching fingers, with a shrill voiceand quick speech, --it was Simeon Stagg, the outcast, the castaway. 

These two were to part company soon. Not more devoted to its masterwas the dog that ran about them than was Sim to Ralph. He was now tolose the only friend who had the will and the strength to shield himagainst the cruel world that was all the world to him. 

They were walking along the pack-horse road on the breast of the fell, and they walked long in silence. Each was busy with his thoughts--theone too weak, the other too strong, to give them utterance. 

"There, " said Ralph as they reached the top of the Raise, "we mustpart now, old friend. " He tried to give a cheery tone to his voice. "You'll go on to the fell every day and look around--an idle task, Ifear, but still you'll go, as I would have gone if I might have stayedin the old country. "

Sim nodded assent. 

"And now you'll go back to the Mess, as I told you. Rotha will wantyou there, and Willy too. You'll fill my place till I return, youknow. "

Sim shook his head. 

"I'd be nothing but an ache and a stound to the lass, as I've olasbeen--nothing but an ache and a stound to them all. "

"No, not that; a comfort, if only you will try to have it so. Be aman, Sim--look men in the face--things will mend with you now. Go backand live with them at the old home; they'll want you there. "

"Since you will not let me come with you, Ralph, tell me when will youcome back? I'm afeart--I don't know why--but some'at tells me you'llnot come back--tell me, Ralph, that you _will_. "

"These troublous times will soon be past, " said Ralph. "There'll be agreat reckoning day soon, I fear. Then we'll meet again--never doubtit. And now good bye--good bye once more, old friend, and God be withyou. "

Ralph turned about and walked a few paces southward. The dog followedhim. 

"Go back, Laddie, " said Ralph. Laddie stood and looked into his facewith something of the supplicatory appeal that was on the countenanceof the man he had just left. The faithful creature had followed Ralphthroughout life; he had been to his master a companion more constantthan his shadow; he had never before been driven away. 

"Go back, Laddie, " said Ralph again, and not without a tremor in hisdeep voice. The dog dropped his head and slunk towards Sim. 

Then Ralph walked on. 

The sun had risen over Lauvellen, and the white wings of a fairmorning lay on the hamlet in the vale below. Sim stood long on theRaise, straining dim eyes into the south, where the diminishing figureof his friend was passing out of his ken. 

It was gone at length; the encircling hills had hidden it. Then theunfriended outcast turned slowly away. 

CHAPTER XVII. THE GARTHS: MOTHER AND SON. 

The smoke was rising lazily in blue coils from many a chimney as Simturned his back on the Raise and retraced his steps to Wythburn. 

In the cottage by the smithy--they stood together near the bridge--thefire had been newly kindled. Beneath a huge kettle, swung from anunseen iron hook, the boughs crackled and puffed and gave out the odorof green wood. 

Bared up to the armpits and down to the breast, the blacksmith waswashing himself in a bowl of water placed on a chair. His mother saton a low stool, with a pair of iron tongs in her hands, feeding thefire from a bundle of gorse that lay at one side of the hearth. Shewas a big, brawny, elderly woman with large bony hands, and a facethat had hard and heavy features, which were dotted here and therewith discolored warts. Her dress was slatternly and somewhat dirty. Asoiled linen cap covered a mop of streaky hair, mouse-colored andunkempt. 

"He's backset and foreset, " she said in a low tone. "Ey, eye; he'smade a sad mull on't. "

Mrs. Garth purred to herself as she lifted another pile of gorse on tothe crackling fire. 

Joe answered with a grating laugh, and then with a burr he applied atowel to his face. 

"Nay, nay, mother. He has a gay bit of gumption in him, has Ray. It'llbe no kitten play to catch hold on him, and _they_ know that _they_do. "

The emphasis was accompanied by a lowered tone, and a sidelong motionof the head towards a doorway that led out of the kitchen. 

"Kitten play or cat play, it's dicky with him; nought so sure, Joey, "said Mrs. Garth; and her cold eyes sparkled as she purred again withsatisfaction. 

"That's what you're always saying, " said Joe testily; "but it nevercomes to anything and never will. "

"Weel, weel, there's nought so queer as folk, " mumbled Mrs. Garth. 

Joe seemed to understand his mother's implication. 

"I'm moider'd to death, " he said, "what with yourself and them. I'mright glad they're going off this morning, that's the truth. "

This declaration of Mr. Garth's veracity was not conducive toamiability. 

He looked as black as his sanguine complexion would allow. 

Mrs. Garth glanced up at him. "Why, laddie, what ails thee? Thou'rt ascrook't as a tiphorn this morning, " she said, in a tone that was meantto coax her son out of a cantankerous temper. 

"I'm like to be, " grumbled Mr. Garth. 

"Why, laddie?" asked his mother, purring, now in other fashion. 

"Why?" said Joe, --"why?--because I can never sleep at night now, no, nor work in the day neither--that's _why_. "

"Hush!" said Mrs. Garth, turning a quick eye towards theaforementioned door. Then quietly resuming her attentions to thegorse, she added, in another tone, "That's nowther nowt nor summat, lad. "

"It'll take a thicker skin nor mine, mother, to hold out much longer, "said Joe huskily, but struggling to speak beneath his breath. 

"Yer skin's as thin as a cat-lug, " said Mrs. Garth in a bitterwhisper. 

"I've told you I cannot hold out much longer, " said Joe, "and Icannot. "

"Hod thy tongue, then, " growled Mrs. Garth over the kettle. 

There was a minute's silence between them. 

The blacksmith donned his upper garments. His mother listened for thesimmer and bubble of the water on the fire. 

"How far did ye bargain to tak them?"

"To Gaskarth--the little lame fellow will make for the Carlisle coachonce they're there?"

"When was t'horse and car to be ready?"

"Nine o'clock forenoon. "

"Then it's full time they were gitten roused. "

Mrs. Garth rose from the stool, hobbled to the door which had beenpreviously indicated by sundry nods and jerks, and gave it two orthree sharp raps. 

A voice from within answered sleepily, "Right--right as a trivet, oldlady, " and yawned. 

Mrs. Garth put her head close to the door-jamb. 

"Ye'd best be putten the better leg afore, gentlemen, " she said withbecoming amiability; "yer breakfast is nigh about ready, gentlemen. "

"The better leg, David, eh? Ha! ha! ha!" came from another muffledvoice within. 

Mrs. Garth turned about, oblivious of her own conceit. In a voice andmanner that had undergone a complete and sudden change, she whisperedto Joe, --

"Thou'rt a great bledderen fool. "

The blacksmith had been wrapped in his thoughts. His reply wasstartlingly irrelevant. 

"Fool or none, I'll not do it, " said Joe emphatically. 

"Do what?" asked his mother in a tone of genuine inquiry. 

"What I told you. "

"Tut, what's it to thee?"

"Ay, but it _is_ something to me, say I. "

"Tush, thou'rt yan of the wise asses. "

"If these constables, " lurching his head, "if they come back, as theysay, to take Ralph, I'll have no hand in't. "

"And why did ye help them this turn?" said Mrs. Garth, with anelevation of her heavy eyebrows. 

"Because I knew nowt of what they were after. If I'd but known that itwere for--for--_him_--"

"Hod thy tongue. Thou wad mak a priest sweer, " said Mrs. Garth. Thewords rolled within her teeth. 

"_I_ heard what they said of the warrant, mother, " said Joe; "it werethe same warrant, I reckon, as old Mattha's always preaching aboot, and it's missing, and it seems to me that they want to make out asRay--as Ralph--"

"Wilt ye _never_ hod yer bletheren tongue?" said Mrs. Garth in a huskywhisper. Then in a mollified temper she added, --

"An what an they do, laddie; what an they do? Did ye not hear yerselthat it were yan o' the Rays--yan o' them; and what's the oddswhich--what's the odds, I say--father and son, they were both of aswatch. "

At this moment there came from the inner room some slight noise ofmotion, and the old woman lifted her finger to her lip. 

"And who knows it were _not_ yan on 'em--who?" added Mrs. Garth, aftera moment's silence. 

"Nay, mother, " said Joe, and his gruff voice was husky in histhroat, --"nay, mother, but there _is_ them that knows. "

The woman gave a short forced titter. 

"Ye wad mak a swine laugh, ye wad, " she said. 

Then, coming closer to where her son now stood with a "lash" comb inhis hand before a scratched and faded mirror, she said under herbreath, --

"There'll be no rest for _him_ till summat's done, none; tak my wordfor that. But yance they hang some riff-raff for him it will soon beforgotten. Then all will be as dead as hissel', back and end. What'sit to thee, man, who they tak for't? Nowt, _Theer's nea sel' like awnsel', Joey_. "

Mrs. Garth emphasized her sentiment with a gentle prod of her son'sbreast. 

"That's what you told me long ago, " said the blacksmith, "when you setme to work to help hang the tailor. I cannot bear the sight of him, Icannot. "

Mrs. Garth took her son roughly by the shoulder. 

"Ye'd best git off and see to t' horse and car. Stand blubbering hereand ye'll gang na farther in two days nor yan. "

There was a step on the road in front. 

"Who's that gone by?" asked Mrs. Garth. 

Joe stepped to the window. 

"Little Sim, " he said, and dropped his head. 

CHAPTER XVIII. THE DAWN OF LOVE. 

Though she lost the best of her faculties, Mrs. Ray did not succumb tothe paralytic seizure occasioned by the twofold shock which she hadexperienced. On the morning after Ralph's departure from Wythburn sheseemed to awake from the torpor in which she had lain throughout thetwo preceding days. She opened her eyes and looked up into the facesthat were bent above her. 

There were evidences of intelligence surviving the wreck of physicalstrength. Speech had gone, but her eyes remained full of meaning. Whenthey spoke to her she seemed to hear. At some moments she, appeared tostruggle with the impulse to answer, but the momentary effort subsidedinto an inarticulate gurgle, and then it was noticed that for aninstant the tears stood in her eyes. 

"She wants to say, 'God bless you, '" said Rotha when she observedthese impotent manifestations, and at such times the girl would stoopand put her lips to the forehead of the poor dear soul. 

There grew to be a kind of commerce in kind between these two, destitute as the one was of nearly every channel of communication. Thehundred tricks of dumb show, the glance, the lifted brow, the touch ofthe hand, the smile, the kiss, --all these acquired their severalmeanings, and somehow they seemed to speak to the silent sufferer in alanguage as definite as words. It came to be realized that this was acondition in which Mrs. Ray might live for years. 

After a week, or less, they made a bed for her in a room adjoining thekitchen, and once a day they put her in a great arm-chair and wheeledher into her place by the neuk window. 

"It will be more heartsome for her, " said Rotha when she suggested thechange; "she'll like for us to talk to her all the same that she can'tanswer us, poor soul. "

So it came about that every morning the invalid spent an hour or twoin her familiar seat by the great ingle, the chair she had sat in dayafter day in the bygone times, before these terrible disasters hadcome like the breath of a plague-wind and bereft her of her powers. 

"I wonder if she remembers what happened, " said Willy; "do you thinkshe has missed them--father and Ralph?"

"Why, surely, " said Rotha. "But her ears are better than her eyes. Don't you mark how quick her breath comes sometimes when she has heardyour voice outside, and how bright her eyes are, and how she tries tosay, 'God bless you!' as you come up to her?"

"Yes, I think I've marked it, " said Willy, "and I've seen that lightin her eyes die away into a blank stare or puzzled look, as if shewanted to ask some question while she lifted them to my face. "

"And Laddie there, when he barks down the lonnin--haven't you seen herthen--her breast heaving, the fingers of that hand of hers twitching, and the mumble of her poor lost voice, as though she'd say, 'Come, Rotha, my lass, be quick with the supper--he's here, my lass, he'sback?'"

"I think you must be right in that, Rotha--that she misses Ralph, "said Willy. 

"She's nobbut a laal bit quieter, that's all, " said MatthewBranthwaite one morning when he turned in at Shoulthwaite. "The damenivver were much of a talker--not to say a _talker_, thoo knows; butmark me, she loves a crack all the same. "

Matthew acted pretty fully upon his own diagnosis of his oldneighbor's seizure. He came to see her frequently, stayed long, rehearsed for her benefit all the gossip of the village, fired off hissapient proverbs, and generally conducted himself in his intercoursewith the invalid precisely as he had done before. In answer to anyinquiries put to him at the Red Lion he invariably contented himselfwith his single explanation of Mrs. Ray's condition, "She's nobbut alaal bit quieter, and the dame nivver were much of a talker, thooknows. "

Rotha Stagg remained at Shoulthwaite in accordance with her promisegiven to Ralph. It was well for the household that she did so. Youngas the girl was, she alone seemed to possess either the self-commandor the requisite energy and foresight to keep the affairs of the homeand of the farm in motion. It was not until many days after thedisasters that had befallen the family that Willy Ray recovered enoughself-possession to engage once more in his ordinary occupations. Hehad spent the first few days in the room with his stricken mother, almost as unconscious as herself of what was going on about him; andindeed his nature had experienced a shock only less serious. 

Meantime, Rotha undertook the management of the home-stead. None everdisputed her authority. The tailor's daughter had stepped into herplace as head of the household at the Moss, and ruled it by that forceof will which inferior natures usually obey without question, andalmost without consciousness of servitude. She alone knew rightly whathad to be done. 

As for the tailor himself, he had also submitted--at leastpartially--to his daughter's passive government. A day or two afterRalph Ray's departure, Rotha had gone in search of her father, and hadbrought him back with her. She had given him his work to do, and hadtried to interest him in his occupations. But a sense of dependenceseemed to cling to him, and at times he had the look of some wildcreature of the hills which had been captured indeed, but was watchinghis opportunity of escape. 

Sim rose at daybreak, and, wet or dry, he first went up on to thehills. In an hour or two he was back again. Rotha understood hispurpose, but no word of explanation passed between them. She lookedinto his face inquiringly day' after day, but nothing she saw theregave hint of hope. The mare was lost. She would never be recovered. 

Sometimes a fit of peculiar despondency would come upon Sim. At suchtimes he would go off without warning, and be seen no more for days. Rotha knew that he had gone to his old haunts on the hill, for nothinginduced him to return to his cottage at Fornside. No one went inpursuit of him. In a day or two he would come back and take up hisoccupation as if he had never been away. Walking leisurely into thecourt-yard, he would lift a besom and sweep, or step into the stableand set to work at stitching up a rent in the old harness. 

Willy Ray can hardly be said to have avoided Sim; he ignored him. There was a more potent relation between these two than any of whichWilly had an idea. Satisfied as he had professed himself to be thatSim was an innocent man, he was nevertheless unable to shake off anuneasy sentiment of repulsion experienced in his presence. Hestruggled to hold this in check, for Rotha's sake. But there was onlyone way in which to avoid the palpable manifestation of his distrust, and that was to conduct himself in such a manner as to appearunconscious of Sim's presence in the house. 

"The girl is not to blame, " he said to himself again and again. "Rothais innocent, whoever may be guilty. "

He put the case to himself so frequently in this way, he tried so hardto explain to his own mind that Rotha at least was free of all taint, that the very effort made him conscious of a latent suspicionrespecting Sim. 

As to Sim's bearing towards Willy, it was the same as he had adoptedtowards almost the whole of the little world in which he lived; hetook up the position of the guilty man, the man to be shunned, the manfrom whose contaminating touch all other men might fairly shrink. Itnever occurred to Sim that there lay buried at his own heart a secretthat could change the relations in which he stood towards this youngerand more self-righteous son of Angus Ray. 

Perhaps, if it had once been borne in upon him that another thanhimself was involved in the suspicion which had settled upon hisname--if he had even come to realize that Rotha might suffer thestigma of a fatal reproach for no worse offence than that she was herfather's daughter--perhaps, if he had once felt this as a possiblecontingency, he would have shaken off the black cloud that seemed tojustify the odium in which he was held by those about him, and liftedup his head for her sake if not for his own. 

But Sim lacked virile strength. The disease of melancholy had longkept its seat at his heart, and that any shadow of doubt could rest onRotha as a result of a misdeed, or supposed misdeed, of his had neveryet occurred to Sim's mind. 

And truly Rotha was above the blight of withering doubt. Rude daughterof a rude age, in a rude country and without the refinements ofeducation, still how pure and sweet she was; how strong, and yet howtender; how unconscious in her instinct of self-sacrifice; how devotedin her loyalty; how absolute in her trust!

But deep and rich as was Rotha's simple nature, it was yet incomplete. She herself was made aware that a great change was even now coming topass. She understood the transformation little, if at all; but itseemed as though, somehow, a new sense were taking hold of her. And, indeed, a new light had floated into her little orbit. Was it toobright as yet for her to see it for what it was? It flooded everythingabout her, and bathed the world in other hues than the old time. Disaster had followed on disaster in the days that had just gone by, but nevertheless--she knew not how--it was not all gloom in her heart. In the waking hours of the night there was more than the memory of thelate events in her mind; her dreams were not all nightmares; and inthe morning, when the swift recoil of sad thoughts rushed in at herfirst awakening, a sentiment of indefinite solace came close behindit. What was it that was coming to pass?

It was love that was now dawning upon her, though still vague andindeterminate; it hardly knew its object. 

Willy Ray took note of this change in the girl, and thought heunderstood it. He accepted it as the one remaining gleam of hope andhappiness for both of them amid the prevailing gloom. Rotha avoidedthe searching light of his glances. When the work of the household wasin hand she shook off the glamour of the new-found emotion. 

In the morning when the men came down for breakfast, and again in theevening when they came in for supper, the girl busied herself in herduties with the ardor of one having no thought behind them and nofeeling in which they did not share. But when the quieter hours of theday left her free for other thoughts, she would stand and look longinto the face of the poor invalid to whom she had become nurse andfoster-child in one; or walk, without knowing why, to the window neuk, and put her hand on the old wheel, that now rested quiet and unusedbeneath it, while she looked towards the south through eyes that sawnothing that was there. 

She was standing so one morning a fortnight or more after Ralph'sdeparture from Wythburn, when Willy came into the kitchen, and, beforeshe was conscious of his presence, sat in the seat of the littlealcove within which she stood. 

He took the hand that lay disengaged by her side and told her in aword or two of his love. He had loved her long in silence. He hadloved her before she became the blessing she now was to him and tohis; to-day he loved her more than ever before. 

It was a simple story, and it came with the accent of sincerity inevery word. 

He thought perhaps she loved him in return--he had sometimes thoughtso--was he wrong?

There was a pause between them. Regaining some momentary composure, the girl turned her eyes once more aside and looked through the neukwindow towards the south. She felt the color mounting to her cheeks, and knew that the young man had risen to his feet beside her. He, onhis part, saw only the fair face before him, and felt only the littlehand that lay passively in his own. 

"It's a sad sort of home to bring you to. It would be idle to ask ifyou have been happy here--it would be a mockery; but--but--"

"I _have_ been happy; that is, happy to do as Ralph wished me. "

"And as _I_ wished?"

"As you wished too, Willy. "

"You've been a blessing to us, Rotha. I sometimes think, though, thatit was hardly fair to bring you into the middle of this trouble. "

"He did it for the best, " said Rotha. 

"Who?"

There was a little start of recovering consciousness. 

"Ralph, " she answered, and dropped her head. 

"True--he did it for the best, " repeated Willy, and relapsed intosilence. 

"Besides, I had no home then, you know. "

How steadfastly the girl's eyes were fixed oh the distant south!

"You had your father's home, Rotha. "

"Ah, no! When it ceased to be poor father's home, how could it be mineany longer? No, I was homeless. "

There was another pause. 

"Then let me ask you to make this house your home forever. Can you notdo so?"

"I think so--I can scarcely tell--he said it might be best--"

Willy let loose her hand. Had he dreamed? Was it a wildhallucination--the bright gleam of happiness that had penetrated thedarkness that lay about him at every step?

How yearningly the girl's eyes still inclined to yonder distant south. 

"Let us say no more about it now, Rotha, " he said huskily. "If youwish it, we'll talk again on this matter--that is, I say, if you_wish_ it; if not, no matter. "

The young man was turning away. Without moving the fixed determinationof her gaze, Rotha said quietly, --

"Willy, I think perhaps I _do_ love you--perhaps--I don't know. Iremember he said that our hearts lay open before each other--"

"Who said so, Rotha?"

There was another start of recovering consciousness. Then the wideeyes looked full into his, and the tongue that would have spokenrefused that instant to speak. The name that trembled in ahalf-articulate whisper on the parted lips came upwards from theheart. 

But the girl was ignorant of her own secret even yet. 

"We'll say no more about it now, Rotha, " repeated Willy in a brokenvoice. "If you wish it, we'll talk again; give me a sign, and perhapswe'll talk on this matter again. "

In another moment the young man was gone. 

CHAPTER XIX. THE BETROTHAL. It was not till she was alone that the girl realized the situation. She put her hand over her eyes--the hand that still tingled with thelight pressure of his touch. 

What had happened? Had Willy asked her to become his wife? And had sheseemed to say No?

The sound of his voice was still lingering on her ears; it was a lowbroken murmur, such as might have fallen to a sob. 

Had she, then, refused? That could not be. She was but a poor homelessgirl, with nothing to recommend her to such a man as he was. Yet sheknew--she had heard--that he loved her, and would one day ask her tobe his wife. She had thought that day was far distant. She had neverrealized that it would be now. Why had he not given her time to think?If Ralph knew what she had done!

For an hour or two Rotha went about the house with a look ofbewilderment in her eyes. 

Willy came back soon afterwards, and helped her to wheel his mother inher chair to her place by the hearth. He had regained his wontedcomposure, and spoke to her as if nothing unusual had occurred. Perhaps it had been something like a dream, all this that haunted her. Willy was speaking cheerfully enough. Just then her father came intothe kitchen, and slunk away silently to a seat in the remotest cornerof the wide ingle. Willy went out almost immediately. Everything wasin a maze. Could it be that she had seemed to say No?

Rotha was rudely awakened from her trance by the entrance at thismoment of the parson of the chapel on the Raise. The present was thefirst visit the Reverend Nicholas Stevens had paid since the day ofthe funeral. He had heard of the latest disaster which had befallenthe family at the Moss. He had also learned something of the paralyticseizure which the disaster had occasioned. He could not any longer putaway the solemn duty of visitation. To take the comfort of hispresence, to give the light of his countenance to the smitten, was apart of his sacred function. These accidents were among the soretrials incident to a cure of souls. The Reverend Nicholas had brushedhimself spick-and-span that morning, and, taking up his gold-headedcane, had walked the two miles to Shoulthwaite. 

Rotha was tying the ribbons of Mrs. Ray's white cap under her chin asthe vicar entered. She took up a chair for him, and placed it near theinvalid. But he did not sit immediately. His eye traversed the kitchenat a glance. He saw Mrs. Ray propped up with her pillows, and lookingvacantly about her, but his attention seemed to be riveted on Sim, whosat uneasily on the bench, apparently trying to escape theconcentrated gaze. 

"What have we here?" he said in a cold and strident voice. "The manSimeon Stagg? Is he here too?"

The moment before Rotha had gone into the dairy adjoining, and, comingback, she was handing a bowl of milk to her father. Sim clutched atthe dish with nervous fingers. 

The Reverend Nicholas walked with measured paces towards where he sat. Then he paused, and stood a yard or two behind Sim, whose eyes werestill averted. 

"I was told you had made your habitation on the hillside; a fittinghome, no doubt, for one unfit to house with his fellows. "

Sim's hand trembled violently, and he set the bowl of milk on thefloor beside him. Rotha was standing a yard or two apart, her breastheaving. 

"Have you left it for good, pray?" There was the suspicion of a sneerin the tone with which the question was asked. 

"Yes, he _has_ left it for good, " said Rotha, catching her breath. 

Sim had dropped his head on his hand, his elbow resting on his knee. 

"More's the shame, perhaps; who knows but it may have been the bestplace for shame to hide in!"

Sim got up, and turning about, with his eyes still fixed on theground, he hurried out of the house. 

"You've driven him away again--do you know that?" said Rotha, regaining her voice, and looking fall into the vicar's face, her eyesaflame. 

"If so, I have done well, young woman. " Then surveying her with a lookof lofty condescension, he added, "And what is your business here?"

"To nurse Mrs. Ray; that is part of it. "

"Even so? And were you asked to come?"

"Surely. "

"By whom?"

"Ralph, her son. "

"Small respect he could have had for you, young woman. "

"Tell me what you mean, sir, " said the girl, with a glance of mingledpride and defiance. 

"Tell you what I mean, young woman! Have you, then, no modesty? Hasthat followed the shame of the hang-dog vagrant who has just left us?"

"Not another word about him! If you have anything to say about me, sayit, sir. "

"What!--the father dead! the mother stricken into unconsciousness--twosons--and you a young woman--was there no matron in the parish, that ayoung woman must come here?"

Rotha's color, that had tinged her cheeks, mounted to her eyes anddescended to her neck. The prudery that was itself a sin hadpenetrated the armor of her innocence. Without another word, sheturned and left the kitchen. 

"Well, Widow Ray, " she heard his reverence say, in an altered tone, ashe faced the invalid. She listened for no more. 

Her trance was over now, and rude indeed had been the awakening. Perhaps, after all, she had no business in this house--perhaps thevicar was right. Yet that could not be. She thought of Mrs. Raysmitten down and dependent upon those about her for help in everysimple office of life, and she thought of the promise she had made toRalph. "Promise me, " he had said, "that you will stay in the old homeas long as mother lives. " And she had promised; her pledged word wasregistered in heaven. 

But then, again, perhaps Ralph had not foreseen that his mother mightlive for years in her present state. No doubt he thought her near todeath. He could not have intended that she should live long in hisbrother's house. 

Yet he _had_ so intended. "He will ask you to be his wife, Rotha, "Ralph had said, "but he can't do so yet. "

This brought her memory back to the earlier events of the morning. Willy Ray had already asked her to become his wife. And what had shedone on her part? Had she not seemed to say No?

Willy was far above her. It was true enough that she was a poorhomeless girl, without lands, without anything but the hands sheworked with. Willy was now a statesman, and he was something of ascholar too. Yes, he was in every way far above her. Were there notothers who might love him? Yet Ralph had seemed to wish her to becomehis brother's wife, and what Ralph had said would be best, must ofcourse be so. 

She could not bring herself to leave Shoulthwaite--that was clearenough to her bewildered sense. Nor could she remain on the presentterms of relation--that, also, was but too clear. If Ralph were athome, how different everything would be! He would lead her with a wordout of this distressing maze. 

When Willy Ray parted from Rotha after he had told her of his love, hefelt that the sunshine had gone out of his life forever. He had beenliving for weeks and months in a paradise that was not his own. Why hehad loved this girl he could hardly say. She was--every one knewit--the daughter of a poor tailor, and he was the poorest and meanestcreature in the country round about. 

The young man could not help telling himself that he might have lookedto marry the daughter of the largest statesman in a radius of miles. 

But then, the girl herself was a noble creature--none could questionit. Rude, perhaps, in some ways, without other learning than the hardusage of life had given her; yet she was a fine soul, as deep as thetarn on the mountain-top, and as pure and clear. 

And he had fancied she loved him. No disaster had quite overshadowedthe bright hope of that surmise. Yet had she not loved Ralph instead?Perhaps the girl herself did not realize that in reality the love ofhis brother had taken hold of her. Did Ralph himself love the girl?That could not be, or he should have guessed the truth the night theyspoke together. Still, it _might_ be that Ralph loved her after all. 

By the following morning Rotha had decided that her duty at thiscrisis lay one way only, and that way she must take. Ralph had said itwould be well for her to become Willy's wife, and she had promised himnever to leave the Moss while his mother lived. She would do as he hadsaid. 

Willy had asked her for a sign, and she must give hint, one--a signthat she was willing to say "Yes" if he spoke again to-day as he hadspoken yesterday. 

Having once settled this point, her spirits experienced a completeelevation. What should the sign be? Rotha walked to the neuk windowand stood to think, her hand on the wheel and her eyes towards thesouth. What, then, should the sign be?

It was by no means easy to hit on a sign that would show him at aglance that her mind was made up; that, however she may have waveredin her purpose yesterday, her resolve was fixed to-day. She stood longand thought of many plans, but none harmonized with her mood. 

"Why should I not tell him--just in a word?" Often as she put if toherself so, she shrank from the ordeal involved. 

No, she must hit on a sign, but she began to despair of lighting on afitting one. Then she shifted her gaze from the landscape through thewindow, and turned to where Mrs. Ray sat in her chair close by. Howvague and vacant was the look in those dear eyes! how mute hung thelips that were wont to say, "God bless you!" how motionless lay thefingers that once spun with the old wheel so deftly!

The old spinning-wheel--here it was, and Rotha's right hand stillrested upon it. Ah! the wheel--surely _that_ was, the sign she wanted. 

She would sit and spin--yes, she could spin, too, though it was longsince she had done so--she would sit in his mother's chair--the onehis mother used to sit in when she spun--and perhaps he wouldunderstand from that sign that she would try to take his mother'splace if he wished her so to do. 

Quick, let it be done at once. He usually came up to the house at thistime of the morning. 

She looked at the clock. He would be here soon, she thought; he mightbe coming now. 

 * * * * *

And Willy Ray was, in truth, only a few yards from the house at themoment. He had been up on to the hills that morning. He had been thereon a similar errand several mornings before, and had never toldhimself frankly what that errand really was. Returning homewards onthis occasion, he had revolved afresh the subject that lay nearest tohis heart. 

If Ralph really loved the girl--but how should he know the truth as tothat, unless Rotha knew it? If the girl loved his brother, he couldrelinquish her. He was conscious of no pang of what was calledjealousy in this matter. An idol that he had worshipped seemed to beshattered--that was all. 

If he saw that Rotha loved Ralph, he must give up forever his onedream of happiness--and there an end. 

It was in this mood that he opened the kitchen door, just as Rotha hadput her foot on the treadle and taken the flax in her hand. 

There the girl sat, side by side with his mother, spinning at thewheel which within his recollection no hand but one had touched. Howfresh and fair the young face looked, tinged, as it was at thismoment, too, with a conscious blush!

Rotha had tried to lift her eyes as Willy entered. She intended tomeet his glance with a smile. She wished to catch the significance ofhis expression. But the lids were heavier than lead that kept her gazefixed on the "rock" and flax below her. 

She felt that after a step or two he had stood still in front of her. She knew that her face was crimson. Her eyes, too, were growing dim. 

"Rotha, my darling!" She heard no more. 

The spinning-wheel had been pushed hastily aside. She was on her feet, and Willy's arms were about her. 

CHAPTER XX. "FOOL, OF THYSELF SPEAK WELL. "

As the parson left Shoulthwaite that morning he encountered Joe Garthat the turning of the lonnin. The blacksmith was swinging along theroad, with a hoop over his shoulder. He lifted his cap as the ReverendNicholas came abreast of him. That worthy was usually too muchabsorbed to return such salutations, but he stopped on this occasion. 

"Would any mortal think it?" he said; "the man Simeon Stagg is herehoused at the home of my old friend and esteemed parishioner, AngusRay!"

Mr. Garth appeared to be puzzled to catch the relevancy of the remark. He made no reply. 

"The audacity of the man is past belief, " continued the parson. "Thinkof his effrontery! Does he imagine that God or man has forgotten themystery of that night in Martinmas?"

The blacksmith realized that some response was expected from him. Witheyes bent on the ground, he muttered, "He's getting above withhimself, sir. "

"Getting above himself! I should think so, forsooth. But verily areckoning day is at hand. Woe to him who carries a load of guilt athis heart and thinks that no man knows of it. Better a millstone wereabout his neck, and he were swallowed up in the great deep. "

The parson turned away. Garth stood for a moment without perceivingthat he was alone, his eyes still bent on the ground. Then he walkedmoodily in the other direction. 

When he reached his home, Joe threw down the hoop in the smithy andwent into the house. His mother was there. 

"Sim, he's at Shoulthwaite, " he said. "It's like enough his daughteris there, too. "

A sneer crossed Mrs. Garth's face. 

"Tut, she's yan as wad wed the midden for sake of the muck. "

"You mean she's setting herself at one of the Rays?"

Mrs. Garth snorted, but gave no more explicit reply. 

"Ey, she's none so daft, is yon lass, " observed the blacksmith. 

This was not quite the trace he had meant to follow. After a pause hesaid, "What came of his papers--in the trunk?"

"Whose?"

"_Thou_ knows. "

Mrs. Garth gave her son a quick glance. 

"It's like they're still at Fornside. I must see to 'em again. "

The blacksmith responded eagerly, --

"Do, mother, do. "

There was another pause. Joe made some pretence of scraping a filewhich he had picked up from a bench. 

"Thou hasn't found out if old Angus made a will?" said Mrs. Garth. 

"No. "

"No, of course not, " said Mrs. Garth, with a curl of the lip. "What Iwant doing I must do myself. Always has been so, and always will be. "

"I wish it were true, mother, " muttered Joe in a voice scarcelyaudible. 

"What's that?"

"Nowt. "

"I'll go over to Shoulth'et to-morrow, " purred Mrs. Garth. "If the oldman made no will, I'll maybe have summat to say as may startle them agay bit. "

The woman grunted to herself at the prospect. "Ey, ey, " she mumbled, "it'll stop their match-makin'. Ey, ey, and what's mair, what's mair, it'll bring yon Ralph back helter-skelter. "

"Mother, mother, " cried the blacksmith, "can you never leave that uglything alone?"

CHAPTER XXI. MRS. GARTH AT SHOULTHWAITE. 

The next day or two passed by with Rotha like a dream. Her manners hadbecome even gentler and her voice even softer than before, and thelight of self-consciousness had stolen into her eyes. Towards theevening of the following day Liza Branthwaite ran up to the Moss tovisit her. Rotha was in the dairy at the churn, and when Liza pushedopen the door and came unexpectedly upon her she experienced amomentary sense of confusion which was both painful and unaccountable. The little lady was herself flushed with a sharp walk, and muffled upto the throat from a cutting wind. 

"Why, Rotha, my girl, what ever may be the matter with you?" saidLiza, coming to a pause in the middle of the floor, and, withoutremoving the hands that had been stuffed up her sleeves from the cold, looking fixedly in her face. 

"I don't know, Liza; I wish you could tell me, lass, " said Rotha, recovering enough self-possession to simulate a subterfuge. 

"Here I've been churning and churning since morning, and don't seemmuch nigher the butter yet. "

"It's more than the butter that pests you, " said Liza, with a wiseshake of the head. 

"Yes; it must be the churn. I can make nothing of it. "

"Shaf on the churn, girl! You just look like Bessie MacNab when theysaid Jamie o' the Glen had coddled her at the durdum yon night atRobin Forbes's. "

"Hush, Liza, " said Rotha, stooping unnecessarily low to investigatethe progress of her labors, and then adding, from the depths of thechurn, "why, and how did Bessie look?"

"Look? look?" cried Liza, with a tip of the chin upwards, as thoughthe word itself ought to have been sufficiently explicit, --"look, yousay? Why, " continued Liza, condescending at length to be more definiteas to the aforesaid young lady's appearance after a kiss at a countrydance, "why, she looked just for the world like you, Rotha. "

Then throwing off her thick outer garment without waiting for any kindof formal invitation, Liza proceeded to make herself at home in a verypractical way. 

"Come, let me have a turn at the churn, " she said, "and let us see ifit is the churn that ails you--giving you two great eyes staring wideas if you were sickening for a fever, and two cheeks as red as thejowls of 'Becca Rudd's turkey. "

In another moment Liza was rolling up the sleeves of her gown, preparatory to the experimental exercise she had proposed to herself;but this was not a task that had the disadvantage of interrupting theflow of her gossip. 

"But I say, lass, " she rattled on, "have you heard what that greatgammerstang of a Mother Garth has been telling 'Becca Rudd about_you_? 'Becca told me herself, and I says to 'Becca, says I, 'Don'tyou believe it; it's all a lie, for that old wizzent ninny bangs themall at lying; and that's saying a deal, you know. Besides, ' I says, 'what does it matter to her or to you, 'Becca, or to me, if so be thatit _is_ true, which I'm not for believing that it is, not I, ' I says. "

"But what was it, Liza? You've not told me what it was, lass, thatMrs. Garth had said about me. "

Rotha had stopped churning, and was standing, with the color risingeven closer round her eyes. Luckily, Liza had no time to observe theminor manifestations of her friend's uneasiness; she had taken hold ofthe "plunger, " and was squaring herself to her work. 

"Say!" she cried; "why the old carlin will say aught in the world buther prayers--she says that you're settin' your cap at one of theseRays boys; that's about what she says the old witchwife, for she's nobetter. But it's as I said to 'Becca Rudd, says I, 'If it _is_ truewhat traffic is it of anybody's; but it isn't true, ' I says, 'and ifit _is_, where's the girl that has more right? It can't be Ralph thatshe's settin' her cap at, 'Becca, ' I says, 'for Ralph's gone, andmayhap never to come to these parts again the longest day he lives. '"

"Don't say that, Liza, " interrupted Rotha in a hoarse voice. 

"Why not? Those redcoats are after him from Carlisle, arn't they?"

"Don't say he'll not come back. We scarce know what may happen. "

"Well, that's what father says, anyway. But, back or not back, itcan't be Ralph, I says to 'Becca. "

"There's not a girl worthy of him, Liza; not a girl on the countryside. But we'll not repeat their old wife's gossip, eh, lass?"

"Not if you're minded not to, Rotha. But as to there being no girlworthy of Ralph, " said Liza, pausing in her work and lifting herselfinto an erect position with an air of as much dignity as a lady of herstature could assume, "I'm none so sure of that, you know. He has afine genty air, I will say; and someways you don't feel the same tohim when he comes by you as you do to other men, and he certainly is agreat traveller; but to say that there isn't a girl worthy of him, that's like Nabob Johnny tellin' Tibby Fowler that he never met thegirl that wasn't partial to him. "

Rotha did not quite realize the parallel that had commended itself toLiza's quick perception, but she raised no objection to the sentiment, and would have shifted the subject. 

"What about Robbie, my lass?" she said. 

"'And as to Willy Ray, ' says I to 'Becca, " continued the loquaciouschurner, without noticing the question, "' it isn't true as Rothawould put herself in his way; but she's full his match, and you can'tshow me one that is nigher his equal. '"

Rotha's confusion was increasing every minute. 

"'What if her father can't leave her much gear, she has a head that'sworth all the gold in Willy's pocket, and more. ' Then says 'Becca, 'What about Kitty Jackson?' 'Shaf, ' says I, 'she's always curlin' herhair before her bit of a looking-glass. ' 'And what about Maggie ofArmboth?' says 'Becca. 'She hasn't got such a head as Rotha, ' says I, 'forby that she's spending a fortune on starch, what with her caps, and her capes, and her frills, and what not. '"

Liza had by this time rattled away, until by the combined exertion ofarms and tongue she had brought herself to a pause for lack of breath. Resting one hand on the churn, she lifted the other to her head topush back the hair that had tumbled over her forehead. As she tossedup her head to facilitate the latter process, her eyes caught aglimpse of Rotha's crimsoning face. "Well, " she said, "I must say thischurn's a funny one; it seems to make you as red as 'Becca's turkey, whether you're working at it or lookin' at some one else. "

"Do you think I could listen to all that praise of myself and notblush?" said Rotha, turning aside. 

"I could--just try me and see, " responded Liza, with a laugh. "That'snothing to what Nabob Johnny said to me once, and I gave him a slapover the lug for it, the strutting and smirking old peacock. Why, he'sall lace--lace at his neck and at his wrists, and on his--"

"You didn't favor _him_ much, Liza. "

"No, but Daddie did; and he said" (the wicked little witch imitatedher father's voice and manner), "'Hark ye, lass, ye must hev him andthen ye'll be yan o' his heirs!' He wants one or two, I says, 'for theold carle would be bald but for the three that are left on hiscrown. '"

"Well, but what about Robbie Anderson?" said Rotha, regaining hercomposure, with a laugh. 

At this question Liza's manner underwent a change. The perky chirpnessthat had a dash of wickedness, not to say of spite, in it, entirelydisappeared. Dropping her head and her voice together, she answered, --

"I don't know what's come over the lad. He's maunderin' about all daylong except when he's at the Lion, and then, I reckon, he's maunderin'in another fashion. "

"Can't you get him to bide by his work?"

"No; it's first a day for John Jackson at Armboth, and then two daysfor Sammy Robson at the Lion, and what comes one way goes the other. When he's sober--and that's not often in these days--he's as sour asMother Garth's plums, and when he's tipsy his head's as soft aspoddish. "

"It was a sad day for Robbie when his old mother died, " said Rotha. 

"And that was in one of his bouts" said Liza; "but I thought it hadsobered him forever. He loved the old soul, did Robbie, though hedidn't always do well by her. And now he's broken loose again. "

It was clearly as much as Liza could do to control her tears, and, being conscious of this, she forthwith made a determined effort tosimulate the sternest anger. 

"I hate to see a man behave as if his head were as soft as poddish. Not that _I_ care, " she added, as if by an afterthought, and as thoughto conceal the extent to which she felt compromised; "it's nothing to_me_, that I can see. Only Wythburn's a hard-spoken place, and they'resure to make a scandal of it. "

"It's a pity about Robbie, " said Rotha sympathetically. 

Liza could scarcely control her tears. After she had dashed a drop ortwo from her eyes, she said: "I cannot tell what it's all about. He'salways in a ponder, ponder, with his mouth open--except when he'sgrindin' his teeth. I hate to see a man walking about like a haystack. And Robbie used to have so much fun once on a time. "

The tears were stealing up to Liza's eyes again. 

"He can't forget what happened on the fell with the mare--that was afearful thing, Liza. "

"Father says it's 'cause Robbie had the say over it all; but Joe Garthsays it comes of Robbie sticking himself up alongside of Ralph Ray. What a genty one Robbie used to be!"

Liza's face began to brighten at some amusing memories. 

"Do you mind Reuben Thwaite's merry night last winter at Aboon Beck?"

"I wasn't there, Liza, " said Rotha. 

"Robbie was actin' like a play-actor, just the same as he'd seen atCarlisle. He was a captain, and he murdered a king, and then he wasmade king himself, and the ghost came and sat in his chair at a greatfeast he gave. Lord o' me! but it was queer. First he came on when hewas going to do the murder and let wit he saw a dagger floating beforehim. He started and jumped same as our big tom cat when Mouser comesround about him. You'd have died of laughing. Then he comes on for thebank'et, and stamps his foot and tells the ghost to be off; and thenhe trembles and dodders from head to foot like Mouser when he's hadhis wash on Saturday nights. You'd have dropt, it was so queer. "

Liza's enjoyment of the tragedy had not been exhausted with theoccasion, for now she laughed at the humors of her own narrative. 

"But those days are gone, " she continued. "I met Robbie last night, and I says, says I, 'Have you pawned your dancing shoes, Robbie, asyou're so glum?' And that's what he is, save when he's tipsy, and thenwhat do ye think the maizelt creature does?"

"What?" said Rotha. 

"Why, " answered Liza, with a big tear near to toppling over the cornerof her eye, "why, the crack't 'un goes and gathers up all the maimeddogs in Wythburn; 'Becca Rudd's 'Dash, ' and that's lame on a hind leg, and Nancy Grey's 'Meg, ' and you know she's blind of one eye, and GraceM'Nippen's 'King Dick, ' and he's been broken back't this many a longyear, and they all up and follow Robbie when he's nigh almost drunk, and then he's right--away he goes with his cap a' one side, and allthe folks laughin'--the big poddish-head!"

There was a great sob for Liza in the heart of the humor of thatsituation; and trying no longer to conceal her sorrow at her lover'srelapse into drinking habits, she laid her head on Rotha's breast andwept outright. 

"We must go to Mrs. Ray; she'll be lonely, poor old thing, " saidRotha, drying Liza's eyes; "besides, she hasn't had her supper, youknow. "

The girls left the dairy, where the churning had made small progressas yet, and went through the kitchen towards the room where the Dameof Shoulthwaite lay in that long silence which had begun sooner withher than with others. 

As they passed towards the invalid's room, Mrs. Garth came in at theporch. It was that lady's first visit for years, and her advent onthis occasion seemed to the girls to forebode some ill. But her mannerhad undergone an extraordinary transformation. Her spiteful tone wasgone, and the look of sourness, which had often suggested to Liza heraffinity to the plums that grew in her own garden, had given place towhat seemed to be a look of extreme benevolence. 

"It's slashy and cold, but I've come to see my old neighbor, " shesaid. "I'm sure I've suffered lang and sair ower her affliction, poorbody. "

Without much show of welcome from Rotha, the three women went intoMrs. Ray's room and sat down. 

"Poor body, who wad have thought it?" said Mrs. Garth, putting herapron to her eye as she looked up at the vacant gaze in the eyes ofthe sufferer. "I care not now how soon my awn glass may run out. I'veso fret myself ower this mischance that the wrinkles'll soon come. "

"She needn't wait much for them if she's anxious to be off, " whisperedLiza to Rotha. 

"Yes, " continues Mrs. Garth, in her melancholy soliloquy, "I fretmysel' the lee-lang day. "

"She's a deal over slape and smooth, " whispered Liza again. "What's itall about? There's something in the wind, mind me. "

"The good dear old creatur; and there's no knowin' now if she'sprovided for; there's no knowin' it, I say, is there?"

To this appeal neither of the girls showed any disposition to respond. Mrs. Garth thereupon applied the apron once more to her eye, andcontinued: "Who wad have thought she could have been brought down solow, she as held her head so high. "

"So she did, did she! Never heard on it, " Liza broke in. 

Not noticing the interruption, Mrs. Garth continued: "And now, whoknows but she may come down lower yet--who knows but she may?"

Still failing to gain a response to her gloomy prognostications, Mrs. Garth replied to her own inquiry. 

"None on us knows, I reckon! And what a down-come it wad be for her, poor creatur!"

"She's sticking to that subject like a cockelty burr, " said Liza, nottroubling this time to speak beneath her breath. "What ever does shemean by it?"

Rotha was beginning to feel concerned on the same score, so she said:"Mrs. Ray, poor soul, is not likely to come to a worse pass while shehas two sons to take care of her. "

"No good to her, nowther on 'em--no good, I reckon; mair's the pity, "murmured Mrs. Garth, calling her apron once more into active service. 

"How so?" Rotha could not resist the temptation to probe thesemysterious deliverances. 

"Leastways, not 'xcept the good dear man as is gone, Angus hissel', made a will for her; and, as I say to my Joey, there's no knowin' asever he did; and nowther is there. "

Rotha replied that it was not usual for a statesman to make a will. The law was clear enough as to inheritance. There could be no questionof Mrs. Ray's share of what had been left. Besides, if there were, itwould not matter much in her case, where everything that was theproperty of her sons was hers, and everything that was hers wastheirs. 

Mrs. Garth pricked up her ears at this. She could not conceal herinterest in what Rotha had said, and throwing aside her languor, sheasked, in anything but a melancholy tone, "So he's left allhugger-mugger, has he?"

"I know nothing of that, " replied Rotha; "but if he has not made awill it cannot concern us at all. It's all very well for the lords ofthe manor and such sort of folk to make their wills, for, what withone thing and another, their property runs cross and cross, andthere's scarce any knowing what way it lies; but for a statesmanowning maybe a hundred or two of acres and a thousand or two of sheep, forby a house and the like, it's not needful at all. The willing isall done by the law. "

"So it is, so it is, lass, " said Mrs. Garth. The girls thought therewas a cruel and sinister light in the old woman's eyes as she spoke. "Ey, the willin's all done by t' law; but, as I says to my Joey, 'Itisn't always done to our likin', Joey'; and nowther is it. "

Liza could bear no longer Mrs. Garth's insinuating manner. Comingforward with a defiant air, the little woman said: "Look you, don'tyou snurl so; but if you've anything to say, just open your mouth andtell us what it's about. "

The challenge was decidedly unequivocal. 

"'Od bliss the lass!" cried Mrs. Garth with an air of profoundastonishment "What ails the bit thing?"

"Look here, you've got a deal too much talk to be jannic, _you_ have, "cried Liza, with an emphasis intended to convey a sense of profoundcontempt of loquaciousness in general and of Mrs. Garth'sloquaciousness in particular. 

Mrs. Garth's first impulse was to shame her adversary out of herwarlike attitude with a little biting banter. Curling her lip, shesaid not very relevantly to the topic in hand, "They've telt me yer afamous sweethearter, Liza. "

"That's mair nor iver _you_ could have been, " retorted the girl, whoalways dropt into the homespun of the country side in degree as shebecame excited. 

"Yer gitten ower slape, a deal ower slippery, " said Mrs. Garth. "Ialways told my Joey as he'd have to throw ye up, and I'm fair pleasedto see he's taken me at my word. "

"Oh, he has, has he?" said Liza, rising near to boiling point at theimputation of being the abandoned sweetheart of the blacksmith. "Ialways said as ye could bang them all at leein. I would not have yourJoey if his lips were droppin' honey and his pockets droppin' gold. Nothing would hire me to do it. Joey indeed!" added Liza, with avision of the blacksmith's sanguine head rising before her, "why, youmight light a candle at his poll. "

Mrs. Garth's banter was not calculated to outlast this kind ofassault. Rising to her feet, she said: "Weel, thou'rt a rare yan, I_will_ say. Yer ower fond o' red ribbons, laal thing. It's aff withher apron and on with her bonnet, iv'ry chance. I reckon ye'd like asilk gown, ye wad. "

"Never mind my clothes, " said Liza. Mrs. Garth gave her no time to saymore, for, at the full pitch of indignation, she turned to Rotha, andadded: "And ye're a rare pauchtie damsel. Ye might have been bred atCourt, you as can't muck a byre. "

"Go home to bed, old Cuddy Garth, " said Liza, "and sup more poddish, and take some of the wrinkles out of your wizzent skin. "

"Setting yer cap at the Rays boys, " continued Mrs. Garth, "but it'llbe all of no use to ye, mark my word. Old Angus never made a will, andthe law'll do all the willin', ye'll see. "

"Don't proddle up yon matter again, woman, " said Liza. 

"And dunnet ye threep me down. I'll serve ye all out, and soon too. "

Mrs. Garth had now reached the porch. She had by this time forgottenher visit of consolation and the poor invalid, who lay on the bedgazing vacantly at her angry countenance. 

"Good evening, Sarah, " cried Liza, with an air of provokingfamiliarity. "May you live all the days o' your life!"

Mrs. Garth was gone by this time. 

Rotha stood perplexed, and looked after her as she disappeared downthe lonnin. Liza burst into a prolonged fit of uproarious laughter. 

"Hush, Liza; I'm afraid she means mischief. "

"The old witch-wife!" cried Liza. "If tempers were up at the Lion forsale, what a fortune yon woman's would fetch!"

CHAPTER XXII. THE THREATENED OUTLAWRY. 

Rotha's apprehension of mischief, either as a result of Mrs. Garth'smenace or as having occasioned it, was speedily to find realization. 

A day or two after the rencontre, three strangers arrived atShoulthwaite, who, without much ceremony, entered the house, and tookseats on the long settle in the kitchen. 

Rotha and Willy were there at the moment, the one baking oaten cake, and the other tying a piece of cord about a whip which was falling topieces. The men wore plain attire, but a glance was enough to satisfyWilly that one of them was the taller of the two constables who hadtried to capture Ralph on Stye Head. 

"What do you want?" he asked abruptly. 

"A little courtesy, " answered the stalwart constable, who apparentlyconstituted himself spokesman to his party. 

"From whom do you come?"

"_From_ whom and _for_ whom!--you shall know both, young man. We comefrom the High Sheriff of Carlisle, and we come for--so pleaseyou--Ralph Ray. "

"He's not here. "

"So we thought. " The constables exchanged glances and broad smiles. 

"He's not here, I tell you, " said Willy, obviously losing hisself-command as he became excited. 

"Then go and fetch him. "

"I would not if I could; I could not if I would. So be off. "

"We might ask you for the welcome that is due to the commissioners ofa sheriff. "

"You _take_ it. But you'll be better welcome to take yourselves afterit. "

"Listen, young master, and let it be to your profit. We want RalphRay, sometime captain in the rebel army of the late usurper inpossession. We hold a warrant for his arrest. Here it is. " And the mantapped with his fingers a paper which he drew from his belt. 

"I tell you once more he is not here, " said Willy. 

"And we tell you again, Go and fetch him, and God send you may findhim! It will be better for all of you, " added the constable, glancingabout the room. 

Willy was now almost beyond speech with excitement. He walkednervously across the kitchen, while the constable, with the utmostcalmness of voice and manner, opened his warrant and read:--

"These are to will and require you forthwith to receive into yourcharge the body of Ralph Ray, and him detain under secureimprisonment--"

"You've had the warrant a long while to no purpose, I believe, " Willybroke in. "You may keep it still longer. "

The constable took no further note of the interruption than to pausein his reading, and begin again in the same measured tones:--

"We do therefore command, publish, and declare that the said RalphRay, having hitherto withheld himself from judgment, shall withinfourteen days next after personally deliver himself to the HighSheriff of Carlisle, under pain of being excepted from any pardon orindemnity both for his life and estate. "

Then the constable calmly folded up his paper, and returned it to itsplace in his belt. Willy now stood as one transfixed. 

"So you see, young man, it will be best for you all to go and fetchhim. "

"And what if I cannot?" asked Willy. "What then will happen?"

"Outlawry; and God send that that be all!"

"And what then?"

"The confiscation to the Crown of these goods and chattels. "

"How so?" said Rotha, coming forward. "Mrs. Ray is still alive, andthis is a brother. "

"They must go elsewhere, young mistress. "

"You don't mean that you can turn the poor dame into the road?" saidRotha eagerly. 

The man shrugged his shoulders. His companions grinned, and shifted intheir seats. 

"You can't do it; you cannot do it, " said Willy emphatically, stampinghis foot on the floor. 

"And why not?" The constable was unmoved. "Angus Ray is dead. RalphRay is his eldest son. "

"It's against the law, I tell you, " said Willy. 

"You seem learned in the law, young farmer; enlighten us, pray. "

"My mother, as relict of my father, has her dower, as well as her owngoods and chattels, which came from her own father, and revert to hernow on her husband's death. "

"True; a learned doctor of the law, indeed!" said the constable, turning to his fellows. 

"I have also my share, " continued Willy, "of all except the freehold. These apportionments the law cannot touch, however it may confiscatethe property of my brother. "

"Look you, young man, " said the constable, facing about and liftinghis voice; "every commissioner must feel that the law had the ill-luckto lose an acute exponent when you gave up your days and nights tofeeding sheep; but there is one point which so learned a doctor oughtnot to have passed over in silence. When you said the wife of thedeceased had a right to her dower, and his younger son to his portion, you forgot that the wife and children of a traitor are in the samecase with a traitor himself. "

"Be plain, sir; what do you mean?" said Willy. 

"That wise brain of yours should have jumped my meaning; it is thatAngus Ray was as much a traitor as his son Ralph Ray, and that if thebody of the latter is not delivered to judgment within fourteen days, the _whole_ estate of Shoulthwaite will be forfeited to the Crown asthe property of a felon and of the outlawed son of a felon. "

"It's a quibble--a base, dishonorable quibble, " said Willy; "my fathercared nothing for your politics, your kings, or your commonwealths. "

The constables shifted once more in their seats. 

"He feels it when it comes nigh abreast of himself, " said one of them, and the others laughed. 

Rotha was in an agony of suspense. This, then, was what the woman hadmeant by her forebodings of further disaster to the semiconscioussufferer in the adjoining room. The men rose to go. Wrapping his cloakabout him, the constable who had been spokesman said, --

"You see it will be wisest to do as we say. Find him for us, and he_may_ have the benefit of pardon and indemnity for his life andestate. "

"It's a trick, a mean trick, " cried Willy, tramping the floor; "yourpardon is a mockery, and your indemnity a lie. "

"Take care, young man; keep your strong words for better service, anddo you profit by what we say. "

"_That_ for what you say, " cried Willy, losing all self-control andsnapping his fingers before their faces. "Do your worst; and be sureof this, that nothing would prevail with me to disclose my brother'swhereabouts even if I knew it, which I do not. "

The constables laughed. "We know all about it, you see. Ha! ha! Youwant a touch of your brother's temper, young master. He could hardlyfizz over like this. We should have less trouble with him if he could. But he's a vast deal cooler than that--worse luck!"

Willy's anger was not appeased by this invidious parallel. "That'senough, " he cried at all but the full pitch of his voice, pointing atthe same time to the door. 

The men smiled grimly and turned about. 

"Remember, a fortnight to-day, and we'll be with you again. "

Rotha clung to the rannel-tree rafter to support herself. Willy thrustout his arm again, trembling with excitement. 

"A fortnight to-day, " repeated the constable calmly, and pulled thedoor after him. 

CHAPTER XXIII. SHE NEVER TOLD HER LOVE. 

When the door had closed behind the constables, Willy Ray sankexhausted into a chair. The tension of excitement had been too muchfor his high-strung temperament, and the relapse was swift andpainful. 

"Pardon and indemnity!" he muttered, "a mockery and a lie--that's whatit is, as I told them. Once in their clutches, and there would be nopardon and no indemnity. I know enough for that. It's a trick to catchus, but, thank God, we cannot be caught. "

"Yet I think Ralph ought to know; that is, if we can tell him, " saidRotha. She was still clinging to the rannel-tree over the ingle. Herface, which had been flushed, was now ashy pale, and her lips werecompressed. 

"He would deliver himself up. I know him too well; I cannot doubt whathe would do, " said Willy. 

"Still, I think he ought to know, " said Rotha. The girl was speakingin a low tone, but with every accent of resolution. 

"He would be denied the pardon if he obtained the indemnity. He wouldbe banished perhaps for years. "

"Still, I think he ought to know. " Rotha spoke calmly and slowly, butwith every evidence of suppressed emotion. 

"My dear Rotha, " said Willy in a peevish tone, "I understand thismatter better than you think for, and I know my brother better thanyou can know him. There would be no pardon, I tell you. Ralph would bebanished. "

"Let us not drive them to worse destruction, " said Rotha. 

"And what _could_ be worse?" said Willy, rising and walking aimlesslyacross the room. "They might turn us from this shelter, true; theymight leave us nothing but charity or beggary, that is sure enough. Isthis worse than banishment? Worse! Nothing can be worse--"

"Yes, but something _can_ be worse, " said the girl firmly, nevershifting the fixed determination of her gaze from the spot whence theconstables had disappeared. "Willy, there _is_ worse to come of thisbusiness, and Ralph should be told of it if we can tell him. "

"You don't know my brother, " repeated Willy in a high tone of extremevexation. "He would be banished, I say. "

"And if so--" said Rotha. 

"If so!" cried Willy, catching at her unfinished words, --"if so weshould purchase our privilege of not being kicked out of this place atthe price of my brother's liberty. Can you be so mean of soul, Rotha?"

"Your resolve is a noble one, but you do me much wrong, " said Rothawith more spirit than before. 

"Nay, then, " said Willy, assuming a tone of some anger, not unmixedwith a trace of reproach, "I see how it is. I know now what you'd haveme to do. You'd keep me from exasperating these bloodhounds to furtherdestruction in the hope of saving these pitiful properties to us, andperchance to our children. But with what relish could I enjoy them ifbought at such a price? Do you think of that? And do you think of thecurse that would hang on them--every stone and every coin--for us andfor our children, and our children's children? Heaven forgive me, butI was beginning to doubt if one who could feel so concerning thesethings were worthy to bear the name that goes along with them. "

"Nay, sir, but if it's a rue-bargain it is easily mended, " said thegirl, her eyes aflame and her figure quivering and erect. 

Willy scarcely waited for her response. Turning hurriedly about, hehastened out of the house. 

"It is a noble resolve, " Rotha said to herself when left alone; "andit makes up for a worse offence. Yes, such self-sacrifice merits adeeper forgiveness than it is mine to offer. He deserves my pardon. And he shall have it, such as it is. But what he said was cruelindeed--indeed it was. "

The girl walked to the neuk window and put her hand on the old wheel. The tears were creeping up into the eyes that looked vacantly towardsthe south. 

"Very, very cruel; but then he was angry. The men had angered him. Hewas sore put about. Poor Willy, he suffers much. Yet it was cruel; it_was_ cruel, indeed it was. "

Rotha walked across the kitchen and again took hold of therannel-tree. It was as though her tempest-tossed soul were traversingafresh every incident of the scenes that had just before been enactedon that spot where now she stood alone. 

Alone! the burden of a new grief was with her. To be suspected ofselfish motives when nothing but sacrifice had been in her heart, thatwas hard to bear. To be suspected of such motives by that man, of allothers, who should have looked into her heart and seen what lay there, that was yet harder. "Willy's sore put about, poor lad, " she toldherself again; but close behind this soothing reflection crept thebiting memory, "It was cruel, what he said; indeed it was. "

The girl tried to shake off the distress which the last incident hadperhaps chiefly occasioned. It was natural that her own little sorrowshould be uppermost, but the heart that held it was too deep to holdher personal sorrow only. 

Rotha stepped into the room adjoining, which for her convenience, aswell as that of the invalid, had been made the bedroom of Mrs. Ray. Placid and even radiant in its peacefulness lay the face of Ralph'smother. There was not even visible at this moment the troubledexpression which, to Rotha's mind, denoted the baffled effort to say, "God bless you!" Thank God, she at least was unconscious of what hadhappened and was still happening! It was with the thought of heralone--the weak, unconscious sufferer, near to death--that Rotha hadsaid that worse might occur. Such an eviction from house and homemight bring death yet nearer. To be turned into the road, withoutshelter--whether justly or unjustly, what could it matter? --thiswould be death itself to the poor creature that lay here. 

No, it could not, it should not happen, if she had power to preventit. 

Rotha reached over the bed and put her arms about the head of theinvalid and fervently kissed the placid face. Then the girl's fairhead, with its own young face already ploughed deep with labor andsorrow, fell on to the pillow, and rested there, while the silenttears coursed down her cheeks. 

"Not if I can prevent it, " she whispered to the deaf ears. But in themidst of her thought for another, and that other Willy's mother aswell as Ralph's, like a poisonous serpent crept up the memory ofWilly's bitter reproach. "It was cruel, very cruel. "

In the agony of her heart the girl's soul turned one way only, andthat was towards him whose absence had occasioned this latest trouble. "Ralph! Ralph!" she cried, and the tears that had left her eyes cameagain in her voice. 

But perhaps, after all, Willy was right. To be turned into the roadwould not mean that this poor sufferer should die of the cold of thehard winter. There were tender hearts round about, and shelter wouldbe found for her. Yet, no! it was Ralph's concernment, and what righthad they to take charity for his mother without his knowledge? Ralphought to be told, if they could tell him. Yes, he _must_ be told. 

Having come to a settled resolution on this point, Rotha rose up fromthe bed, and, brushing her tangled hair from her forehead, walked backinto the kitchen. Standing where she had stood while the constableswere there, she enacted every incident and heard every syllableafresh. 

There could be no longer any doubt that Ralph should know what hadalready happened and what further was threatened. Yet who was to tellhim, and how was he to be told? It was useless to approach Willy inhis present determination rather to suffer eviction than to do Ralphthe injury of leading, or seeming to lead, to his apprehension. 

"That was a noble purpose, but it was wrong, " thought Rotha, and itnever occurred to her to make terms with a mistake. "It was a noblepurpose, " she thought again; and when the memory of her own personalgrief crept up once more, she suppressed it with the reflection, "Willy was sore tried, poor lad. "

Who was to tell Ralph, and how was he to be told? Who knew where hehad gone, or, knowing this, could go in search of him? Would that sheherself had been born a man; then she would have travelled the kingdomover, but she would have found him. She was only a woman, however, andher duty lay here--here in the little circle with Ralph's mother, andin his house and his brother's. Who could go in search of Ralph?

At this moment of doubt, Sim walked into the courtyard of thehomestead. He had not been seen since the day of the parson's visit, but, without giving sign of any consciousness that he had been away, he now took up a spade and began to remove a drift of sleet that hadfallen during the previous night. Rotha's eyes brightened, and shehastened to the door and hailed him. 

"Father, " she said, when Sim had followed her into the house, "youmade a great journey for Ralph awhile ago; could you make anothernow?"

"What has happened? Do they rype the country with yon warrant still?"asked Sim. 

"Worse than that, " said Rotha. "If that were all, we could leave Ralphto settle with them; they would never serve their warrant, never. "

"Worse; what's worse, lass?" said Sim, changing color. 

"Outlawry, " said Rotha. 

"What's that, girl?--what's outlawry?--nothing to do with--with--withWilson, has it?" said Sim, speaking beneath his breath, and in quickand nervous accents. 

"No, no: not that. It means that unless Ralph is delivered up withinfourteen days this place will be taken by the bailiffs of theSheriff. "

"And what of that?" said Sim. "Let them take it--better let them haveit than Ralph fall into their hands. "

"Father, poor Mistress Ray would be turned into the roads--they'd haveno pity, none. "

"I'll uphod thee that's true, " said Sim. "It staggers me. "

"We must find Ralph, and at once too, " said Rotha. 

"Find him? He's gone, but Heaven knows where. "

"Father, if I were a man, I'd find him, God knows I would. "

"It's nigh about the worst as could have happened, it is, " said Sim. 

"The worst will be to come if we do not find him. "

"But how? where? Following him will be the rule o' thumb, " said Sim. 

"You said he took the road over the Raise, " said Rotha. "He'll not gofar, depend upon that. The horse has not been caught. Ralph is amongthe mountains yet, take my word for it, father. "

"It's bad weather to trapes the fells, Rotha. The ground is all slushand sladderment. "

"So it is, so it is; and you're grown weak, father. I'll go myself. Liza Branthwaite will come here and fill my place. "

"No, no, I'll go; yes, that I will, " said Sim. Rotha's ardor of soulhad conquered her father's apprehension of failure. 

"It's only for a fortnight at most, that's all, " added Sim. 

"No more than that. If Ralph is not found in a fortnight, make yourway home. "

"But he shall be found, God helping me, he shall, " said Sim. 

"He _will_ help you, father, " said Rotha, her eyes glistening withtears. 

"When should I start away?"

"To-morrow, at daybreak; that's as I could wish you, " said Rotha. 

"To-morrow--Sunday? Let it be to-night. It will rain to-morrow, for itrained on Friday. Let it be to-night, Rotha. "

"To-night, then, " said the girl, yielding to her father'ssuperstitious fears. Thrusting her hand deep into a pocket, she added, "I have some money, not much, but it will find you lodgings for afortnight. "

"Never mind the money, girl, " said Sim; "give me the horse-wallet onmy back, with a bit of barley bread--and that will do. "

"You must take the money as well. These are cold, hard nights. Promiseme you'll lodge at the inns on the road; remember to keep yourselfstrong, for it's your only chance of finding Ralph--promise me!"

"I give you my word, Rotha. "

"And now promise to say nothing of this to Willy, " said Rotha. 

Sim did not reply, but a quick glance expressed more than words of thecertainty of secrecy in that regard. 

"When you've crossed the Raise, follow on to Kendal, " said Rotha, "andask everywhere as you go. A fortnight to-day the men return; rememberthat, and tell Ralph when you meet. "

"I fear he'll give himself up, I do, " said Sim ruefully, and stillhalf doubting his errand. 

"That's for him to decide, and he knows best, " answered Rotha. "To-night, after supper, be you at the end of the lonnin, and I'llmeet you there. "

Then Sim went out of the house. 

 * * * * *

When Willy Ray left Rotha an hour ago it was with an overwhelmingsense of disappointment. Catching at an unfinished phrase, he hadjumped to a false conclusion as to her motives. He thought that he hadmistaken her character, and painful as it had been to him some daysago to think that perhaps the girl had not loved him, the distress ofthat moment was as nothing to the agony of this one, when he began tosuspect that perhaps he did not love her. Or if, indeed, he loved her, how terrible it was to realize, as he thought he did but too vividly, that she was unworthy of his love! Had she not wished to save the oldhome at the cost of his brother's liberty? True, Ralph was _his_brother, not _hers_, and perhaps it was too much to expect that sheshould feel his present situation as deeply as he did. Yet he hadthought her a rich, large soul, as unselfish as pure. It was terribleto feel that this had been an idle dream, a mere mockery of the poorreality, and that his had been a vain fool's paradise. 

Then to think that he was forever to be haunted by this idle dream; tothink that the shattered idol which he could no longer worship was tolive with him to the end, to get up and lie down with him, and standforever beside him!

Perhaps, after all, he had been too hard on the girl. Willy toldhimself it had been wrong to expect so much of her. She was--he mustlook the stern fact in the face--she was a country girl, and no more. Then was she not also the daughter of Simeon Stagg?

Yes, the sunshine had been over her when he looked at her before, andit had bathed her in a beauty that was not her own. That had not beenher fault, poor girl. He had been too hard on her. He would go andmake amends. 

As Willy entered the house, Sim was coming out of it. They passedwithout a word. 

"Forgive me, Rotha, " said Willy, walking up to her and taking herhand. "I spoke in haste and too harshly. "

Rotha let her hand lie in his, but made no reply. After his apology, Willy would have extenuated his fault. 

"You see, Rotha, you don't know my brother as well as I do, and henceyou could not foresee what would have happened if we had done what youproposed. "

Still there was no response. Willy's words came more slowly as hecontinued: "And it was wrong to suppose that whether Ralph were givenup or not they would leave us in this place, but it was natural thatyou should think it a good thing to save this shelter. "

"I was thinking of your mother, Willy, " said Rotha, with her eyes onthe ground. 

"My mother--true. " Willy had not thought of this before; that Rotha'smind had been running on the possible dangers to his mother of thethreatened eviction had never occurred to him until now. He had beenwrong--entirely so. His impulse was to take the girl in his arms andconfess the injustice of his reflections; but he shrank from this atthe instant, and then his mind wriggled with apologies for his error. 

"To spare mother the peril of being turned into the roads--that wouldhave been something; yes, much. Ralph himself must have chosen to dothat. But once in the clutches of those bloodhounds, and it might havemeant banishment for years, for life perhaps--aye, perhaps even deathitself. "

"And even so, " said Rotha, stepping back a pace and throwing up herhead, while her hands were clinched convulsively, --"and even so, " sherepeated. "Death comes to all; it will come to him among the rest, andhow could he die better? If he were a thousand times my brother, Icould give him up to such a death. "

"Rotha, my darling, " cried Willy, throwing his arms about her, "I amashamed. Forgive me if I said you were thinking of yourself. Look up, my darling; give me but one look, and say you have pardoned me. "

Rotha had dropped her eyes, and the tears were now blinding them. 

"I was a monster to think of it, Rotha; look in my face, my girl, andsay you forgive me. "

"I could have followed you over the world, Willy, and looked for nobetter fortune. I could have trusted to you, and loved you, though wehad no covering but the skies above us. "

"Don't kill me with remorse, Rotha; don't heap coals of fire on myhead. Look up and smile but once, my darling. "

Rotha lifted her tear-dimmed eyes to the eyes of her lover, and Willystooped to kiss her trembling lips. At that instant an impulse tookhold of him which he was unable to resist, and words that he struggledto suppress forced their own utterance. 

"Great God!" he cried, and drew back his head with a quick recoil, "how like your father you are!"

CHAPTER XXIV. TREASON OR MURDER. 

The night was dark that followed. It had been a true Cumbrian day inwinter. The leaden sky that hung low and dense had been relieved onlyby the white rolling mists that capped the fells and swept atintervals down their brant and rugged sides. The air had not clearedas the darkness came on. There was no moon. The stars could notstruggle through the vapor that lay beneath them. There was no wind. It was a cold and silent night. 

Rotha stood at the end of the lonnin, where the lane to Shoulthwaitejoined the pack-horse road. She was wrapped in a long woollen cloakhaving a hood that fell deep over her face. Her father had parted fromher half an hour ago, and though the darkness had in a moment hiddenhim from her sight, she had continued to stand on the spot at which hehad left her. 

She was slight of figure and stronger of will than physique, but shedid not feel the cold. She was revolving the step she had taken, andthinking how great an issue hung on the event. Sometimes shemistrusted her judgment, and felt an impulse to run after her fatherand bring him back. Then a more potent influence would prompt her tostart away and overtake him, yet only in order to bear his message thequicker for her fleeter footsteps. 

But no; Fate was in it: a power above herself seemed to dominate herwill. She must yield and obey. The thing was done. 

The girl was turning about towards the house, when she heard footstepsapproaching her from the direction which her father had taken. Shecould not help but pause, hardly knowing why, when the gaunt figure ofMrs. Garth loomed large in the road beside her. Rotha would now havehastened home, but the woman had recognized her in the darkness. 

"How's all at Shoulth'et?" said Mrs. Garth in her blandest tones;"rubbin' on as usual?"

Rotha answered with a civil commonplace, and turned to go. But Mrs. Garth had stood, and the girl felt compelled to stand also. 

"It's odd to see ye not at work, lass, " said the woman in aconciliatory way; "ye're nigh almost always as thrang as Thorp wife, tittyvating the house and what not. "

Again some commonplace from Rotha, and another step homewards. 

"I've just been takin' a sup o' tea with laal 'Becca Rudd. It's earlyto go home, but, as I says to my Joey, there's no place like it; andnowther is there. It's like ye've found that yersel', lass, aforethis. "

There was an insinuating sneer in the tone in which Mrs. Garth utteredher last words. Getting no response, she added, --

"And yer fadder, I reckon _he's_ found it out too, bein' so langbeholden to others. I met the poor man on the road awhile ago. "

"It's cold and sappy, Mrs. Garth. Good night, " said Rotha. 

"Poor man, he has to scrat now, " said Mrs. Garth, regardless ofRotha's adieu. "I reckon he's none gone off for a spoag; he's nonegone for a jaunt. "

The woman was angry at Rotha's silence, and, failing to conciliate thegirl, she was determined to hold her by other means. Rotha perceivedthe purpose, and wondered within herself why she did not go. 

"But he's gone on a bootless errand, I tell ye, " continued Mrs. Garth. 

"What errand?" It was impossible to resist the impulse to probe thewoman's meaning. 

Mrs. Garth laughed. It was a cruel laugh, with a crow of triumph init. 

"Yer waxin' apace, lass; I reckon ye think ye'll be amang the nextbatch of weddiners, " said Mrs. Garth. 

Rotha was not slow to see the connection of this scarcely relevantobservation. Did the woman know on what errand her father had set out?Had she guessed it? And if so, what matter?

"I wish the errand had been mine instead, " said Rotha calmly. But itwas an unlucky remark. 

"Like enough. Now, that's very like, " said Mrs. Garth with affectedsincerity. "Ye'll want to see him badly, lass; he's been lang away. Weel, it's nought but nature. He's a very personable young man. There's no sayin' aught against it. Yes, he's of the bettermer sort, that way. "

Of what use was it to continue this idle gossip? Rotha was againturning about, when Mrs. Garth added, half as comment and half asquestion, --

"And likely ye've never had the scribe of a line from him sin' heleft. But he's no wanter; he'll never marry ye, lass, so ye need neverset heart on him. "

Rotha stepped close to the woman and looked into her face. Whatwickedness was now brewing?

"Nay, saucer een, " said Mrs. Garth with a snirt, "art tryin' toskiander me like yon saucy baggish, laal Liza?"

"Come, Mrs. Garth, let us understand one another, " said Rothasolemnly. "What is it you wish to tell me? You said my father had goneon a bootless errand. What do you know about it? Tell me, and don'ttorment me, woman. "

"Nay, then, I've naught to say. Naught but that Ralph Ray is on thestormy side of the hedge _this_ time. "

Mrs. Garth laughed again. 

"He is in trouble, that is true; but what has he done to you that youshould be glad at his misfortunes?"

"Done? done?" said Mrs. Garth; "why--but we'll not talk of that, mylass. Ask _him_ if ye'd know. Or mayhap ye'll ask yon shaffles, yerfather. "

What could the woman mean?

"Tak my word for it; never set heart on yon Ralph: he's a doomed man. It's not for what he did at the wars that the redcoats trapes afterhim. It's worse nor that--a lang way war' nor that. "

"What is it, woman, that you would tell me? Be fair and plain withme, " cried the girl; and the words were scarcely spoken when shedespised herself for regarding the matter so seriously. 

But Mrs. Garth leaned over to her with an ominous countenance, andwhispered, "There's murder in it, and that's war' nor war. May war'never come among us, say I!" Rotha put her hands over her face, andthe next moment the woman shuffled on. 

It was out at length. 

Rotha staggered back to the house. The farm people had taken supper, and were lounging in various attitudes of repose on the skemmel in thekitchen. 

The girl's duties were finished for the day, and she went up to herown room. She had no light, and, without undressing, she threw herselfon the bed. But no rest came to her. Hour after hour she tossed about, devising reason on reason for disbelieving the woman's word. Butapprehension compelled conviction. 

Mrs. Garth had forewarned them of the earlier danger, and she might bebut too well informed concerning this later one. 

Rotha rejected from the first all idea of Ralph being guilty of thecrime in question. She knew nothing of the facts, but her heartinstantly repudiated the allegation. Perhaps the crime was somethingthat had occurred at the wars six years ago. It could hardly be thesame that still hung over their own Wythburn. That last dread mysterywas as mysterious as ever. Ralph had said that her father was innocentof it, and she knew in her heart that he must be so. But what was itthat he had said? "Do you _know_ it was not father?" she had asked;and he had answered, "I _know_ it was not. " Did he mean that hehimself--

The air of her room felt stifling on that winter's night. Her brow washot and throbbing, and her lips were parched and feverish. Rising, shethrew open the window, and waves of the cold mountain vapor rolled inupon her. 

That was a lie which had tried a moment ago to steal into her mind--acruel, shameless lie. Ralph was as innocent of murder as she was. Nopurer soul ever lived on earth; God knew it was the truth. 

Hark! what cry was that which was borne to her through the silentnight? Was it not a horse's neigh?

Rotha shuddered, and leaned out of the window. It was gone. The reignof silence was unbroken. Perhaps it had been a fancy. Yet she thoughtit was the whinny of a horse she knew. 

Rotha pulled back the sash and returned to her bed. How long and heavywere the hours till morning! Would the daylight never dawn? or was theblackness that rested in her own heart to lie forever over all theearth?

But it came at last--the fair and gracious morning of another day cameto Rotha even as it always has come to the weary watcher, even as italways will come to the heartsore and heavy-laden, however long andblack the night. 

The girl rose at daybreak, and then she began to review the late turnof events from a practical standpoint. 

Assuming the woman's word to be true, in what respect was the prospectdifferent for Mrs. Garth's disclosure? Rotha had to confess to herselfthat it was widely different. When she told Willy that she could giveup Ralph, were he a thousand times her brother, to such a death ofsacrifice as he had pictured, she had not conceived of a death thatwould be the penalty of murder. That Ralph would be innocent of thecrime could not lessen the horror of such an end. Then there was thecertainty that conviction on such a charge would include the seizureof the property. Rotha dwelt but little on the chances of an innocentman's acquittal. The law was to her uninformed mind not an agent ofjustice, but an instrument of punishment, and to be apprehended was tobe condemned. 

Ralph must be kept out of the grip of the law. Yes, that was beyondquestion. Whether the woman's words were true or false, the issueswere now too serious to be played with. 

She had sent her father in pursuit of Ralph, and the effect of what hewould tell of the forthcoming eviction might influence Ralph to adopta course that would be imprudent, even dangerous--nay, even fatal, inthe light of the more recent disclosure. 

What had she done? God alone could say what would come of it. 

But perhaps her father could still be overtaken and brought back. Yetwho was to do it? She herself was a woman, doomed as such to sit ather poor little wheel, to lie here like an old mastiff or its weaktottering whelp, while Ralph was walking--perhaps at her bidding--tohis death. 

She would tell Willy, and urge him to go in pursuit of Sim. Yet, no, that was not possible. She would have to confess that she had actedagainst his wish, and that he had been right while she had been wrong. Even that humiliation was as nothing in the face of the disaster thatshe foresaw: but Willy and Sim!--Rotha shuddered as she reflected howlittle the two names even could go together. 

The morning was growing apace, and still Rotha's perplexity increased. She went downstairs and made breakfast with an absent mind. 

The farm people came and went; they spoke, and she answered; but allwas as a dream, except only the one grim reality that lay on her mind. 

She was being driven to despair. It was far on towards midday, and shewas alone; still no answer came to her question. She threw herself onthe settle, and buried her face in her hands. She was in too muchagony to weep. What had she done? What could she do?

When she lifted her eyes, Liza Branthwaite was beside her, lookingamazed and even frightened. 

"What has happened, lass?" said Liza fearfully. 

Then Rotha, having no other heart to trust with her haunting secret, confided it to this simple girl. 

"And what can I do?" she added in a last word. 

During the narration, Liza had been kneeling, with her arms in herfriend's lap. Jumping up when Rotha had ceased, she cried, in reply tothe last inquiry, "I know. I'll just slip away to Robbie. He shall beoff and fetch your father back. "

"Robbie?" said Rotha, looking astonished. 

"Never fear, _I'll_ manage _him_. And now, cheer up, my lass; cheerup. "

In another moment Liza was running at her utmost speed down thelonnin. 

CHAPTER XXV. LIZA'S DEVICE. 

When she reached the road, the little woman turned towards Wythburn. Never pausing for an instant, she ran on and on, passing sundry groupsof the country folks, and rarely waiting to exchange more than thescant civilities of a hasty greeting. 

It was Sunday morning, and through the dense atmosphere that precededrain came the sound of the bells of the chapel on the Raise, whichrang for morning service. 

"What's come over little Liza?" said a young dalesman, who, in thesolemnity of Sunday apparel, was wending his way thither, as thelittle woman flew past him, "tearing, " as he said, "like a crazything. "

"Some barn to be christened afore the service, Liza?" called anotheryoung dalesman after her, with the memory of the girl's enjoyment of asimilar ceremony not long before. 

Liza heeded neither the questions nor the banter. Her destination wascertainly not the church, but she ran with greater speed in thatdirection than the love of the Reverend Nicholas's ministrations hadyet prompted her to compass. 

The village was reached at length, and her father's house was near athand; but the girl ran on, without stopping to exchange a word withher sententious parent, who stood in the porch, pipe in hand, and cladin those "Cheppel Sunday" garments with which, we fear, the sanctuarywas rarely graced. 

"Why, theer's Liza, " said Matthew, turning his head into the house tospeak to his wife, who sat within; "flying ower the road like a madgreyhound. "

Mrs. Branthwaite had been peeling apples towards the family's onegreat dinner in the week. Putting down the bowl which contained them, she stepped to the door and looked after her daughter's vanishingfigure. 

"Sure enough, it is, " she said. "Whatever's amiss? The lass went overto the Moss. Why, she stopping, isn't she?" "Ey, at the Lion, "answered Mattha. "I reckon there's summat wrang agen with that Robbie. I'll just slip away and see. "

Panting and heated on this winter's day, red up to the roots of thehair and down to the nape of the neck, Liza had come to a full pauseat the door of the village inn. It was not a false instinct that hadled the girl to choose this destination. Sunday as it was, the youngman whom she sought was there, and, morning though it might be, he wasalready in that condition of partial inebriation which Liza hadrecognized as the sign of a facetious mood. 

Opening the door with a disdainful push, compounded partly of hercontempt for the place and partly of the irritation occasioned by theevents that had brought her to the degradation of calling there, Lizacried out, as well as she could in her present breathless condition, --

"Robbie, come your ways out of this. "

The gentleman addressed was at the moment lying in a somewhatundignified position on the floor. Half sprawling, half resting on oneknee, Robbie was surprised in the midst of an amusement of which theperky little body whom he claimed as his sweetheart had previouslyexpressed her high disdain. This consisted of a hopeless endeavor tomake a lame dog dance. The animal in question was no other than 'BeccaRudd's Dash, a piece of nomenclature which can only be described asthe wildest and most satirical misnomer. Liza had not been too severeon Dash's physical infirmities when she described him as lame on oneof his hind legs, for both those members were so effectually out ofjoint as to render locomotion of the simplest kind a difficultyattended by violent oscillation. This was probably the circumstancethat had recommended Dash as the object of Robbie's half-drunkenpastime; and after a fruitless half-hour's exercise the tractablelittle creature, with a woeful expression of face, was at lengthpoised on its hindmost parts just as Liza pushed open the door andcalled to its instructor. 

The new arrival interrupted the course of tuition, and Dash availedhimself of his opportunity to resume the normal functions of his frontpaws. At this the reclining tutor looked up from his place on thefloor with a countenance more of sorrow than of anger, and said, in atone that told how deeply he was grieved, "_There_, lass, see howyou've spoilt it!"

"Get up, you daft-head! Whatever are you mufflin' about, you sillyone, lying down there with the dogs and the fleas?"

Liza still stood in the doorway with an august severity of pose thatwould have befitted Cassandra at the porch. Her unsparing tirade hadprovoked an outburst of laughter, but not from Robbie. There were twoother occupants of the parlor--Reuben Thwaite, who had never beennumbered among the regenerate, and had always spent his Sundaymornings in this place and fashion; and little Monsey Laman, whoseduty as schoolmaster usually embraced that of sexton, bell-ringer, andpew-opener combined, but who had escaped his clerical offices on thisSabbath morning by some plea of indisposition which, as was eventuallyperceived, would only give way before liberal doses of the medicinekept at the sign of the Red Lion. 

The laughter of these worthies did not commend itself to Liza'ssympathies, for, turning hotly upon them, she said, "And you're worsenor he is, you old sypers. "

"Liza, Liza, " cried Robbie, raising his forefinger in an attitude ofremonstrance, which he had just previously been practising on theunhappy Dash, --"Liza, think what it is to call this reverend clerk andsexton and curate a _toper!_"

"And so he is; he's like yourself, he's only half-baked, the halfthick. "

"Now--now--now, Liza!" cried Robbie, raising himself on his haunchesthe better to give effect to his purpose of playing the part ofpeacemaker and restraining the ardor of his outspoken little friend. 

"Come your ways out, I say, " said Liza, not waiting for the admonitionthat was hanging large on the lips of the blear-eyed philosopher onthe floor. 

"Come your ways, " she repeated; "I would be solid and solemn withyou. "

Robbie was at this instant struggling to regain possession of theitinerant Dash, who, perceiving a means of escape, was hobbling hisway to the door. 

"Wait a minute, " said Robbie, having captured the runaway, --"wait aminute, Liza, and Dash will show you how to dance like Mother Garth. "

"Shaf on Dash!" said Liza, taking a step or two into the room andsecuring to that animal his emancipation by giving him a smack thatknocked him out of Robbie's hands. "Do you think I've come here to seeyour tipsy games?"

Robbie responded to this inquiry by asking with provoking good natureif she had not rather come to give him a token of her love. 

"Give us a kiss, lass, " he said, getting up to his feet and extendinghis arms to help himself. 

Liza gave him something instead, but it produced a somewhat louder andsmarter percussion. 

"What a whang over the lug she brong him!" said Reuben, turning to theschoolmaster. 

"I reckon it's mair wind ner wool, like clippin' a swine, " saidMatthew Branthwaite, who entered the inn at this juncture. 

Robbie's good humor was as radiant as ever. "A kiss for a blow, " hesaid, laughing and struggling with the little woman. "It's a Christianvirtue, eh, father?"

"Ye'll not get many of them, at that rate, " answered Mattha, less thanhalf pleased at an event which he could not comprehend. "It's slowwark suppin' buttermilk with a pitchfork. "

"Will you _never_ be solid with me?" cried Liza, with extreme vexationpictured on every feature as her scapegrace sweetheart tried toimprison her hands in order to kiss her. "I tell you--" and then therewas some momentary whispering between them, which seemed to have theeffect of sobering Robbie in an instant. His exuberant vivacity gaveplace to a look of the utmost solemnity, not unmixed with a painfulexpression as of one who was struggling hard to gather together hisscattered wits. 

"They'll only have another to take once they catch _him_, " said Robbiein an altered tone, as he drew his hand hard across his eyes. 

There was some further whispering, and then the two went outside. Returning to the door, Liza hailed her father, who joined them on thecauseway in front of the inn. 

Robbie was another man. Of his reckless abandonment of spirit no tracewas left. 

Mattha was told of the visit of the constables to Shoulthwaite, and ofSim's despatch in search of Ralph. 

"He'll be off for Carlisle, " said Robbie, standing square on his legs, and tugging with his cap off at the hair at the back of his head. 

"Like eneuf, " answered Mattha, "and likely that's the safest place forhim. It's best to sit near the fire when the chimney smokes, thooknows. "

"He'll none go for safety, father, " answered Robbie; and turning toLiza, he added, "But what was it you said about Mother Garth?"

"The old witch-wife said that Ralph was wanted for murder, " repliedthe girl. 

"It's a lie, " said Robbie vehemently. 

"I'll uphod thee there, " said Mattha; "but whatever's to be done?"

"Why, Robbie must go and fetch Sim back, " said Liza eagerly. 

"The lass is right, " said Robbie; "I'll be off. " And the young manswung on his heel as though about to carry out his purpose on theinstant. 

"Stop, stop, " said Mattha; "I reckon the laal tailor's got farther nerthe next cause'y post. You must come and tak a bite of dinner and setaway with summat in yer pocket. "

"Hang the pocket! I must be off, " said Robbie. But the old man tookhim too firmly by the arm to allow of his escape without deliberaterudeness. They turned and walked towards the weaver's cottage. 

"What a maizelt fool I've been to spend my days and nights in thishole!" said Robbie, tipping his finger over his shoulder towards theRed Lion, from which they were walking. 

"I've oft telt thee so, " said Mattha, not fearing the character of aJob's comforter. 

"And while this bad work has been afoot too, " added Robbie, with apenitent drop of the head. 

They had a tributary of the Wyth River to pass on the way to Mattha'shouse. When they came up to it, Robbie cried, "Hold a minute!" Thenrunning to the bank of the stream, he dropt on to his knees, andbefore his companions could prevent him he had pulled off his cap andplunged his head twice or thrice in the water. 

"What, man!" said Mattha, "ye'd want mair ner the strength of men andpitchforks to stand again the like of that. Why, the water is asbiting as a stepmother welcome on a winter's mornin' same as this. "

"It's done me a power of good though, " said Robbie shaking his wethair, and then drying it with a handkerchief which Liza had handed himfor the purpose. "I'm a stone for strength, " added Robbie, but risingto his feet he slipped and fell. 

"Then didsta nivver hear that a tum'lan stone gedders na moss, " saidMattha. 

The jest was untimely, and the three walked on in silence. Once at thehouse the dinner was soon over, and not even Mrs. Branthwaite'shomely, if hesitating, importunity could prevail with Robbie to make asubstantial meal. 

"Come, lad, " said Matthew, "you've had but a stepmother bit. "

"I've had more than I've eaten at one meal for nigh a month--more thanI've taken since that thing happened on the fell, " answered Robbie, rising from the table, strapping his long coat tightly about him withhis belt, and tying cords about the wide flanges of his big boots. 

"Mattha will sett thee on the road, Robbie, " said Mrs. Branthwaite. 

"Nay, nay; I reckon, I'd be scarce welcome. Mayhap the lad haswelcomer company. "

This was said in an insinuating tone, and with a knowing inclinationof the head towards Liza, whose back was turned while she stole awayto the door. 

"Nay, now, but nobody shall sett me, " said Robbie, "for I must flyover the dikes like a racehorse. "

"Ye've certainly got a lang stroke o' the grund, Robbie. "

Robbie laughed, waved his hand to the old people, who still sat atdinner, and made his way outside. 

Liza was there, looking curiously abashed, as though she felt at themoment prompted to an impulse of generosity of which she had cause tobe ashamed. 

"Gi'e us a kiss, now, my lass, " whispered Robbie, who came behind herand put his arm about her waist. 

There was a hearty smacking sound. 

"What's that?" cried Mattha from within; "I thought it might be thesneck of a gate. "

CHAPTER XXVI. "FOOL, DO NOT FLATTER. "

When Mrs. Garth reached home, after her interview with Rotha in theroad, there was a velvety softness in her manner as of one who had asense of smooth satisfaction with herself and her surroundings. 

The blacksmith, who was working at a little bench which he had set upin the kitchen, was also in a mood of more than usual cheerfulness. 

"Ey, he's caught--as good as caught, " said Mrs. Garth. 

Her son laughed, but there was the note of forced merriment in hisvoice. 

"Where do they say he is--Lancaster?"

"That's it, not a doubt on't. "

"Were they sure of him--the man at Lancaster?"

"No, but _I_ were when they telt me what mak of man it was. "

The blacksmith laughed again over a chisel which he was tempering. 

"It's nothing to me, is it, mother?"

"Nowt in the warld, Joey, ma lad. "

"They are after him for a traitor, but I cannot see as it's anythingto me what they do with him when they catch hod on him; it's nothingto me, is it, mother?"

"Nowt. "

Garth chuckled audibly. Then in a low tone he added, --

"Nor nothing to me what comes of his kin afterwards. "

He paused in his work; his manner changed; he turned to where Mrs. Garth was coiled up before the fire. 

"Had _he_ any kin, mother?"

Mrs. Garth glanced quickly up at her son. 

"A brother, na mair. "

"What sort of a man, mother?"

"The spit of hissel'. "

"Seen anything of him?"

"Not for twenty year. "

"Nor want to neither?"

Mrs. Garth curled her lip. 

CHAPTER XXVII. RALPH AT LANCASTER. 

The night of the day on which the officers of the Sheriff's court ofCarlisle visited Shoulthwaite, the night of Simeon Stagg's departurefrom Wythburn in pursuit of Ralph, the night of Rotha's sorrow and hersoul's travail in that solitary house among the mountains, was a nightof gayety and festival in the illuminated streets of old Lancaster. The morning had been wet and chill, but the rain-clouds sweptnorthward as the day wore on, and at sundown the red bars belted theleaden sky that lay to the west of the towers of the gray castle onthe hill. 

A proclamation by the King had to be read that day, and the ancientcity had done all that could be done under many depressing conditionsto receive the royal message with fitting honors. Flags that had lainlong furled, floated from parapet and pediment, from window andbalcony, from tower and turret. Doors were thrown open that had notalways swung wide on their hinges, and open house was kept in manyquarters. 

Towards noon a man mounted the steps in the Market Place, and readthis first of the King's proclamations and nailed it to the Cross. 

A company of red-coated soldiers were marched from the Castle Hill tothe hill on the southwest, which had been thrown up six years beforeby the russet-coated soldiery who had attacked and seized the castle. Then they were marched back and disbanded for the night. 

When darkness fell over highway and byway, fires were lit down themiddle of the narrow streets, and they sent up wide flakes of lightthat brightened the fronts of the half-timbered houses on either side, and shot a red glow into the sky, where the square walls of theDungeon Tower stood out against dark rolling clouds. Little knots ofpeople were at every corner, and groups of the baser sort weregathered about every fire. Gossip and laughter and the click of thedrinking-horn fell everywhere on the ear. But the night was stillyoung, and order as yet prevailed. 

The Market Place was the scene of highest activity. Numbers of men andboys sat and stood on the steps of the Cross, discussing theproclamation that had been read there. Now and again some youth ofmore scholarship than the rest held a link to the paper, and lispedand stammered through its bewildering sentences for the benefit of acircle of listeners who craned their necks to hear. 

The proclamation was against public vice and immorality of varioussorts which were unpunishable by law. It set forth that there weremany persons who had no method of expressing their allegiance to theirSovereign but that of drinking his health, and others who had solittle regard for morality and religion as to have no respect for thevirtue of the female sex. 

The loyaly of the Lancasterians might be unimpeachable, but theiramusement at the proclamation was equally beyond question. 

"That from Charles Stuart!" said one, with a laugh; and he added, withmore familiarity of affection for his King than reverence for hisaugust state, "What a sly dog he is, to be sure!"

"Who is that big man in the long coat?" said another, who had notparticipated in the banter of his companions on the Puritanicaldevices of Charles and his cronies. He was jerking his head aside towhere a man whom we have known in other scenes was pushing his waythrough the crowd. 

"Don't know; no one knows, seemingly, " answered the politician whosepenetration had solved the mystery of the proclamation against viceand all loose livers. 

"He's been in Lancaster this more nor a week, hasn't he?"

"Believe he has; and so has the little withered fellow that haunts himlike his shadow. Don't seem over-welcome company, so far as I cansee. "

"Where's the little one now?"

"I reckon he's nigh about somewhere. "

Ralph Ray borrowed a link from a boy who was near, and stood beforethe paper that was posted upon the Cross. Just then a short, pale-faced, elderly man, with quick eyes beneath shaggy brows, elbowedhis way between the people and came up close at Ray's side. 

It was clearly not his object to read the proclamation, for after aglance at it his eyes were turned towards Ralph's face. If he hadhoped to catch the light of an expression there he was disappointed. Ralph read the proclamation without changing a muscle of hiscountenance. He was returning the link to its owner, when the littleman reached out his long finger, and, touching the paper as it hung onthe Cross, looked up into Ralph's eyes with a cunning leer, and said, "Unco' gude, eh?"

Ralph made no reply. As though determined to draw him into converse, the little man shrugged his shoulders, and added, "Clarendon's workthat, eh?"

There was still no response, so the speaker continued: "It'll deceivenone. It's lang sin' the like of it stood true in England--worseluck!"

The dialect in which this was spoken was of that mongrel sort which inthese troublous days was sometimes adopted by degenerate Scotchmenwho, living in England, had reasons of their own for desiring toconceal their nationality. 

"I'll wager it's all a joke, " added the speaker, dropping his voice, but still addressing Ralph, and ignoring the people that stood aroundthem. 

Ralph turned about, and, giving but a glance to his interlocutor, passed out of the crowd without a word. 

The little man remained a moment or two behind, and then slunk downthe street in the direction which Ralph had taken. 

There was to be a performance at the theatre that night, and alreadythe people had begun to troop towards St. Leonard's Gate. Chairs werebeing carried down the causeway, with link-boys walking in front ofthem, and coaches were winding their way among the fires in thestreets. Scarlet cloaks were mingling with the gray jerkins of thetownspeople, and swords were here and there clanking on the pavement. 

The theatre was a rude wooden structure that stood near the banks ofthe river, on a vacant plot of ground that bordered the city on theeast and skirted the fields. It had a gallery that sloped upwards fromthe pit, and the more conspicuous seats in it were draped in crimsoncloth. The stage, which went out as a square chamber from one side ofthe circular auditorium, was lighted by lamps that hung above theheads of the actors. 

Before the performance began every seat was filled. The men hailedtheir friends from opposite sides of the house, and laughed andchaffed, and sang snatches of Royalist and other ballads. The women, who for the most part wore veils or masks, whispered together, flirtedtheir fans, and returned without reserve the salutations that wereoffered them. 

Ralph Ray, who was there, stood at the back of the pit, and close athis left was the sinister little man who had earlier in the eveningbeen described as his shadow. Their bearing towards each other was thesame as had been observed at the Cross: the one constantlyinterrogating in a low voice; the other answering with a steadfastglance or not at all. 

When the curtain rose, a little butterfly creature, in theblue-and-scarlet costume of a man, --all frills and fluffs and lace andlinen, --came forward, with many trips and skips and grimaces, andpronounced a prologue, which consisted of a panegyric on the King andhis government in their relations to the stage. 

It was not very pointed, conclusive, or emphatic, but it was rewardedwith applause, which rose to a general outburst of delighted approvalwhen the rigor of the "late usurpers" was gibbeted in the followingfashion:--

 Affrighted with the shadow of their rage, They broke the mirror of the times, the Stage; The Stage against them still maintained the war, When they debauched the Pulpit and the Bar. 

"Pretty times, forsooth, of which one of that breed could be themirror, " whispered the little man at Ralph's elbow. 

The play forthwith proceeded, and proved to be the attempt of agentleman of fashion to compromise the honor of a lady of the Courtwhom he had mistaken for a courtesan. The audience laughed at everyindelicate artifice of the libertine, and screamed when the demuremaiden let fall certain remarks which bore a double significance. Finally, when the lady declared her interest in a cage of birds, andthe gentleman drew from his pocket a purse of guineas, and, shakingthem before her face, asked if those were the dicky-birds she wishedfor, the enjoyment of the audience passed all bounds of ordinaryexpression. The men in lace and linen lay back in their seats to givevent to loud guffaws, and the women flirted their fans coquettishlybefore their eyes, or used them to tap the heads of their malecompanions in mild and roguish remonstrance. 

"Pity they didn't debauch the stage as well as the pulpit and bar, ifthis is its condition inviolate, " whispered the little man again. 

The intervals between the acts were occupied by part of the audiencein drinking from the bottles which they carried strapped about theirwaists, and in singing snatches of songs. One broad-mouthed roystereron the ground proposed the King's health, and supported the toast by aballad in which "Great Charles, like Jehovah, " was described asmerciful and generous to the foes that would unking him and the vipersthat would sting him. The chorus to this loyal lyric was sung by the"groundlings" with heartiness and unanimity:--

 Let none fear a fever, But take it off thus, boys; Let the King live forever, 'Tis no matter for us, boys. 

Ralph found the atmosphere stifling in this place, which was grownnoisome now to wellnigh every sense. He forced his way out through theswaying bodies and swinging arms of the occupants of the pit. As hedid so he was conscious, though he did not turn his head, that closebehind him, in the opening which he made in the crowd, his inevitable"Shadow" pursued him. 

The air breathed free and fresh outside. Ralph walked from St. Leonard's Gate by a back lane to the Dam Side. The river as well asthe old town was illuminated. Every boat bore lamps to the masthead. Lamps, too, of many colors, hung downwards from the bridge, and werereflected in their completed circle in the waters beneath them. 

The night was growing apace, and the streets were thronged withpeople, some laughing, some singing, some wrangling, and somefighting. Every tavern and coffee-house, as Ralph went by, sent outinto the night its babel of voices. Loyal Lancasterians were within, doing honor to the royal message of that day by observing the spiritwhile violating the letter of it. 

Ralph had walked up the Dam Side near to that point at which the CovelCross lies to the left, when a couple of drunken men came reeling outof a tavern in front of him. Their dress denoted their profession andrank. They were lieutenants of the regiment which had been newlyquartered at the castle. Both were drunk. One was capering about in ahopeless effort to dance; the other was trolling out a stave of theballad that was just then being sung at the corner of every street:--

 The blood that he lost, as I suppose (Fa la la la), Caused fire to rise in Oliver's nose (Fa la la la). This ruling nose did bear such a sway, It cast such a heat and shining ray, That England scarce knew night from day (Fa la la la). 

The singer who thus described Cromwell and his shame was interruptedby a sudden attack of thirst, and forthwith applied the unfailingantidote contained in a leathern bottle which he held in one hand. 

Ralph stepped off the pavement to allow the singer the latitude hiscondition required, when that person's companion pirouetted into hisbreast, and went backwards with a smart rebound. 

"What's this, stopping the way of a gentleman?" hiccuped the man, bringing himself up with ludicrous effort to his full height, andsuspending his capering for the better support of his soldierlydignity. 

Then, stepping closer to Ralph, and peering into his face, he cried, "Why, it's the man of mystery, as the sergeant calls him. Here, I say, sir, " continued the drunken officer, drawing with difficulty the swordthat had dangled and clanked at his side; "you've got to tell us whoyou are. Quick, what's your name?"

The man was flourishing his sword with as much apparent knowledge ofhow to use it as if it had been a marlin-spike. Ralph pushed it asidewith a stout stick that he carried, and was passing on, when thesinging soldier came up and said, "Never mind his name; but whether hebe Presbyter Jack or Quaker George, he must drink to the health of theKing. Here, " he cried, filling a drinking-cup from the bottle in hishand, "drink to King Charles and his glory!"

Ralph took the cup, and, pretending to raise it to his lips, cast itscontents by a quick gesture over his shoulder, where the liquor fellfull in the face of the Shadow, who had at that moment crept up behindhim. The soldiers were too drunk to perceive what he had done, andpermitted him to go by without further molestation. As he walked on heheard from behind another stave of the ballad, which told how--

 This Oliver was of Huntingdon (Fa la la la), Born he was a brewer's son (Fa la la la), He soon forsook the dray and sling, And counted the brewhouse a petty thing Unto the stately throne of a king (Fa la la la). 

"What did the great man himself say?" asked the Shadow, stepping up toRalph's side. "He said, 'I would rather have a plain, russet-coatedcaptain who knows what he fights for, and loves what he knows, thanwhat you call a gentleman. ' And he was right, eh?"

"God knows, " said Ralph, and turned aside. 

He had stopped to look into the middle of a small crowd that hadgathered about the corner of the Bridge Lane. A blind fiddler sat on astool there and played sprightly airs. His hearers consisted chieflyof men and boys. But among them was one young girl in bright ribbons, who was clearly an outcast of the streets. Despite her gay costume, she had a wistful look in her dark eyes, as of one who was on thepoint of breaking into tears. 

The dance tunes suddenly came to an end, and were followed by the longand solemn sweeps of a simple old hymn such as had been known in manyan English home for many an age. Gradually the music rose and fell, and then gently, and before any were aware, a sweet, low, girlishvoice took up the burden and sang the words. It was the girl of thestreets who sang. Was it the memory of some village home that thesechords had awakened? Was it the vision of her younger and purer daysthat came back to her amid the gayeties of this night--of the hamlet, the church, the choir, and of herself singing there?

The hymn melted the hearts of many that stood around, and tears nowstood in the singer's downcast eyes. 

 * * * * *

At that hour of that night, in the solitary homestead far north, amongthe hills, what was Rotha's travail of soul?

 * * * * *

Ralph dropped his head, and felt something surging in his throat. 

At the same instant a thick-lipped man with cruel eyes crushed throughthe people to where the girl stood, and, taking her roughly by theshoulder, pushed her away. 

"Hand thy gab, " he said, between clinched teeth; "what's _thy_business singing hymns in t'streets? Get along home to bed; that'smore in thy style, I reckon. "

The girl was stealing away covered with shame, when Ralph parted thepeople that divided him from the man, and, coming in front of him, laid one hand on his throat. Gasping for breath, the fellow would havestruggled to free himself, but Ralph held him like a vise. 

"This is not the first time we have met; take care it shall be thelast. "

So saying, Ralph flung the man from him, and he fell like an infant athis feet. 

Gathering himself up with a look compounded equally of surprise andhatred, the man said, "Nay, nay; do you think it'll be the last? don'tyou fear it!"

Then he slunk out of the crowd, and it was observed that when he hadgained the opposite side of the street, the little, pale-faced elderlyperson who had been known as Ralph's Shadow, had joined him. 

 * * * * *

"Is it our man?"

"The same, for sure. "

"Then it must be done the day. We've delayed too long already. "

CHAPTER XXVIII. AFTER WORD COMES WEIRD. 

I. When Ralph lay down in his bed that night in a coffee-house in ChinaLane, there was no conviction more strongly impressed upon his mindthan that it was his instant duty to leave Lancaster. It was obviousthat he was watched, and that his presence in the old town had excitedsuspicion. The man who had pestered him for many days with hisunwelcome society was clearly in league with the other man who hadinsulted the girl. The latter rascal he knew of old for a declared andbitter enemy. Probably the pair were only waiting for authority, perhaps merely for the verification of some surmise, before securingthe aid of the constable to apprehend him. He must leave Lancaster, and at once. 

Ralph rose from his bed and dressed himself afresh. He strapped hisbroad pack across his back, called his hostess, and paid his score. "Must the gentleman start away at midnight?" Yes; a sudden callcompelled him. "Should she brew him a pot of hot ale?--the nights werechill in winter. " Not to-night; he must leave without delay. 

When Ralph walked through the streets of Lancaster that cold midnight, it was with no certainty as to his destination. It was to be anywhere, anywhere in this race for life. Any haven that promised solitude wasto be his city of refuge. 

The streets were quiet now, and even the roystering tipplers had goneoff to their homes. For Ralph there was no home--only this wild huntfrom place to place, with no safety and rest. 

His heavy tread and the echo of his footfall were at length all thatbroke the stillness of the streets. 

He walked southwards, and when he reached the turnpike he stood for amoment and turned his eyes towards the north. The fires that had beenkindled were smouldering away, but even yet a red gleam lay across thesquare towers of the castle on the hill. 

The old town was now asleep. Thousands of souls lay slumbering there. 

Ralph thought of those who slept in a home he knew, far, far north ofthis town and those towers. What was his crime that he was banishedfrom them--perhaps forever? What was his crime before God or man? Hismother, his brother, Rotha--

Ralph struck his breast and turned about. No, it would not bear to bethought about. _That_ dream, at least, was gone. Rotha was happy inhis brother's love, and as for himself--as for him--it was hisdestiny, and he must bear it!

Yet what was life worth now that he should struggle like this topreserve it?

Ralph returned to his old conviction--God's hand was on him. The idea, morbid as it might be, brought him solace this time. Once more hestopped, and turned his eyes afresh towards the north and the fiftymiles of darkness that lay between him and those he loved. 

It was at that very moment of desolation that Rotha heard the neigh ofa horse as she leaned out of her open window. 

II. "Aye, poor man, about Martinmas the Crown seized his freehold and allhis goods and chattels. "

"It will be sad news for him when he hears that his old mother and thewife and children were turned into the road. "

"Well, well, I will say, treason or none, that John Rushton was asgood a subject as the loudest bagpipes of them all. "

Ralph was sitting at breakfast in a wayside inn when two Lancashireyeomen entered and began to converse in these terms: "Aye, aye, andthe leaven of Puritanism is not to be crushed out by such measures. But it's flat dishonesty, and nothing less. What did the proclamationof '59 mean if it didn't promise pardon to every man that fought forthe Parliament, save such as were named as regicides?"

"Tut, man, it came to nought; the King returned without conditions;and the men who fought against him are reckoned as guilty as thosethat cut off his father's head. " "But the people will never uphold it. The little leaven remains, and one day it will leaven the lump. "

"Tut, the people are all fools--except such as are knaves. See howthey're given up to drunkenness and vain pleasures. Hypocrisy andlibertinism are safe for a few years' reign. England is _Merry_England, as they say, and she'll be merry at any cost. "

"Poor John, it will be a sad blow to him!"

Ralph had been an eager listener to the conversation between theyeomen, who were clearly old Whigs and Parliamentarians. 

"Pardon me, gentlemen, " he interrupted, "do you speak of John Rushtonof Aberleigh?"

"We do. As good a gentleman as lived in Lancashire. "

"That's true, but where was he when this disaster befell hishousehold?"

"God knows; he had fled from judgment and was outlawed. "

"And the Crown confiscated his estate, you say, and turned his familyinto the road? What was the indictment--some trumpery subterfuge fortreason?"

"Like enough; but the indictment counts for nothing in these days;it's the verdict that is everything, and that's settled beforehand. "

"True, true. "

"Did you know my neighbor John?"

"I did; we were comrades years ago. "

With these words, Ralph rose from his unfinished breakfast and walkedout of the house. 

What mischief of the same sort might even now be brewing at Wythburnin his absence? Should he return? That would be useless, and worsethan useless. What could he do?

The daring impulse suddenly possessed him to go on to London, secureaudience of the King himself, and plead for amnesty. Yes, that was allthat remained to him to do, and it should be done. His petition mightbe spurned; his person might be seized, and he might be handed over tojudgment; but what of that? He was certain to be captured sooner orlater, and this sorry race for liberty and for life would be over atlength. 

III. The same day Ralph Ray, still travelling on foot, had approached thetown of Preston. It was Sunday morning, but he perceived that smokelike a black cloud overhung the houses and crept far up the steeplesand towers. Presently a tumultuous rabble came howling and hooting outof the town. At the head of them, and apparently pursued by them, wasa man half clad, who turned about at every few yards, and, raising hisarm, predicted woe and desolation to the people he was leaving. He wasa Quaker preacher, and his presence in Preston was the occasion ofthis disturbance. 

"Oh, Preston, " he cried, "as the waters run when the floodgates areup, so doth the visitation of God's love pass away from thee, oh, Preston!"

"Get along with thee; thou righteous Crister, " said one of the crowd, lifting a stick above his head. "Get along, or ye'll have GervasBennett aback of ye again. "

"I shall never cease to cry aloud against deceit and vanities, "shrieked the preacher above the tumult. "You do profess a Sabbath, anddress yourselves in fine apparel, and your women go with stretchednecks. "

"Tush, tush! Beat him, stone him!"

"Surely the serpent will bite without enchantment, " the preacherreplied, "and a babbler is no better. The lips of a fool will swallowup himself. "

The church bells were beginning to ring in the town, and the soundcame across the fields and was heard even above the mocking laughterof the crowd. 

"You have your steeple-houses, too, " cried the preacher, "and thebells of your gospel markets are even now a-ringing where your priestsand professors are selling their wares. But God dwells not in templesmade with hands. Oh, men of Preston, did I not prophesy that fire, andfamine, and plagues, and slaughter would come upon ye unless ye cameto the light with which Christ hath enlightened all men? And have yenot the plague of the East at your doors already?"

"And who brought it, who brought it?" screamed more than one voicefrom the crowd. "Who brought the plague to us from the East? Beat him, beat him!" The mob, with many uplifted hands, swayed about thepreacher. "Your cities will be laid waste, the houses without man, andthe land be utterly desolate. And what will ye do, oh men of Preston, in the day of visitation, and in the desolation which shall come fromfar?"

The rabble had rushed past by this time, still hooting and howling atthe wild, fiery-eyed enthusiast at their head. 

Ralph walked on to the town and speedily discovered the cause of theblack cloud which overhung it. An epidemic of an alarming nature hadbroken out in various quarters, and fears were entertained that it wasnone other than a great pestilence which had been brought to Englandfrom the East. 

Indescribably eerie was the look of Preston that Sunday morning. Menand boys were bearing torches through the streets to disinfect them, and it was the smoke from these torches that hung like a cloud abovethe town. Through the thick yellow atmosphere the shapes of peoplepassing to and fro in the thoroughfares stood out large and black. 

IV. Ralph had travelled thus far in the fixed determination of pushing onto London, seeking audience of the King himself, and pleading for anamnesty. But the resolution which had never failed him before begannow to waver. Surely there was more than his political offencesinvolved in the long series of disasters that had befallen hishousehold? He reflected that every link in that chain of evil seemedto be coupled to the gyves that hung about his own wrists. Wilson'slife in Wythburn--his death--Sim's troubles--Rotha's sorrow--even hisfather's fearful end, and the more fearful accident at thefuneral--then his mother's illness, nigh to death--how nigh to deathby this time God alone could tell him here--all, all, with this lastmisery of his own banishment, seemed somehow to centre in himself. Yes, yes, sin and its wages must be in this thing; but what sin, whatsin? What was the crime that cast its shadow over his life?

"As the waters run when the flood-gates are up, " said the preacher, "so doth the visitation of God's love pass away from thee. "

Of what use, then, would be the amnesty of the King? Mockery ofmockeries! In a case like this only the Great King Himself couldproclaim a pardon. Ralph put his hands over his eyes as the visioncame back to him of a riderless horse flying with its dread burdenacross the fells. No sepulture! It was the old Hebrew curse--thepunishment of the unpardonable sin. 

He thought again of his stricken mother in the old home, and then ofthe love which had gone from him like a dream of the night. Heaven hadwilled it that where the heart of man yearned for love, somewhere inthe world there was a woman's heart yearning to respond. But the cursecame to some here and some there--the curse of an unrequitablepassion. 

 * * * * *

The church bells were still ringing over the darkened town. 

Rotha was happy in her love; Heaven be with her and bless her! As forhimself, it was a part of the curse that lay on him that her faceshould haunt his dreams, that her voice should come to him in hissleep, and that "Rotha, Rotha, " should rise in sobs to his lips in theweary watches of the night. 

Yes, it must be as he had thought--God's hand was on him. Destiny hadto work its own way. Why should he raise his feeble hands to preventit? The end would be the end, whenever and wherever it might come. Why, then, should he stir?

Ralph had determined to go no farther. He would stay in Preston overthe night, and set out again for the north at daybreak. Was it despairthat possessed him? Even if so, he was stronger than before. Hope hadgone, and fear went with it. 

Take heart, Ralph Ray, most unselfish and long-suffering of men. God'shand is indeed upon you, but God Himself is at your right hand!

V. That day Ralph walked through the streets with a calmer mind. Towardsnightfall he stepped into a tavern and secured a bed. Then he wentinto the parlor of the house and sat among the people gathered there, and chatted pleasantly on the topics of the hour. 

The governing spirit of the company was a little man who wore a suitof braided black which seemed to indicate that he belonged to one ofthe clerkly professions. He was addressed by the others as LawyerLampitt, and was asked if he would be busy at the court house on thefollowing morning. "Yes, " he answered, with an air of consequence, "there's the Quaker preacher to be tried for creating a disturbance. "

"Was he taken, then?" asked one. 

"He's quiet enough now in the old tower, " said the lawyer, stretchinghimself comfortably before the fire. 

"I should have thought his tormentors were fitter occupants of hiscell, " said Ralph. 

"Perhaps so, young man; I express no opinion. "

"There was scarce a man among them whose face would not have hangedhim, " continued Ralph. 

"There again I offer no opinion, " said the lawyer, "but I'll tell youan old theory of mine. It is that a murderer and a hero are all butthe same man. "

The company laughed. They were accustomed to these triumphs of logic, and relished them. Every man braced himself up in his seat. 

"Why, how's that, lawyer?" said a townsman who sat tailor-fashion on abench; he would hardly have been surprised if the lawyer had provedbeyond question that he swam swanlike among the Isles of Greece. 

"I'll tell you a story, " said the gentleman addressed. "There was anancient family in Yorkshire, and the lord of the house was of a verysplenetive temper. One day in a fit of jealousy he killed his wife, and put to death all of his children who were at home by throwing themover the battlements of his castle. He had one remaining child, and itwas an infant, and was nursed at a farmhouse a mile away. He had setout for the farm with an intent to destroy his only remaining child, when a storm of thunder and lightning came on, and he stopped. "

"Thought it was a warning, I should say, " interrupted a listener. 

"It awakened the compunctions of conscience, and he desisted from hispurpose. "

"Well?"

"What do you think he did next?"

"Cannot guess--drowned himself?"

"No, and this proves what I say, that a murderer and a hero are allbut one. He surrendered himself to justice, and stood mute at the bar, and, in order to secure his estates to his surviving child, he had theresolution to die under the dreadful punishment of _peine forte_. "

"What is that, lawyer?"

"Death by iron weights laid on the bare body until the life is crushedout of it. "

"Dreadful! And did he secure his estates to his child by sufferingsuch a death?"

"He did. He stood mute at the bar, and let judgment go against himwithout trial. It is all in black and white. The Crown cannotconfiscate a man's estate until he is tried and condemned. "

"What of an outlaw?" asked Ralph somewhat eagerly. 

"A man's flight is equal to a plea of guilty. "

"I had a comrade once, " said Ralph with some tremor of voice; "he fledfrom judgment and was outlawed, and his poor children were turned intothe road. Could he have kept his lands for his family by deliveringhis body to that death you speak of?"

"He could. The law stands so to this day. "

"Think you, in any sudden case, a man could do as much _now?_"

"He _could_, " answered the lawyer; "but where's the man who _would?_Only one who must die in any chance, and then none but a murderer, Ishould say. "

"I don't know--I don't know that, " said Ralph, rising withill-concealed agitation, and stalking out of the room, without thecurtest leave-taking. 

VI. On Tuesday, Ralph was walking through Kendal on his northward journey. The day was young. Ralph meant to take a meal at the old coachinghouse, the Woodman, in Kirkland, by the river Kent, and then push ontill nightfall. 

The horn of the incoming coach fell on his ear, and the coachitself--the Carlisle coach, laden with passengers from back tofront--swept into the courtyard of the inn at the moment he entered itafoot. 

There was a little commotion there. A group of the serving folk, themaids in their caps, the ostlers bareheaded, and some occasionalstable people were gathered near the taproom door. The driver of thecoach got off his box and crushed into the middle of this company. Hispassengers paused in their descent from the top to look over the headsof those who were on the ground. 

"Drunk, surely, " said one of these to another; "that proclamation wasnot unnecessary. "

"Some poor straggler, sir; picked him up insensible and fetched himalong, " said one of the ostlers. 

Ralph walked past the group to the threshold of the inn. 

"Loosen his neckcloth!--here, take my brandy, " said a passenger. 

"Came from the North, seemingly, sir. Looks weak from want and a longjourney. "

"From the North?" asked the coachman; "I'll give him a seat in thecoach to-night and take him home. "

Ralph stepped back and looked over some of the people. 

A man was lying on the ground, his head in a woman's lap. 

It was Simeon Stagg. 

CHAPTER XXIX. ROBBIE'S QUEST BEGUN. 

When Robbie Anderson left Wythburn, his principal and immediatepurpose was to overtake Simeon Stagg. It was of less consequence thathe should trace and discover Ralph Ray. Clearly it had been Ralph'sobject on leaving home to keep out of reach of the authorities whowere in pursuit of him. But there was no saying what course a man suchas he might take in order to insure the safety of the people who weredear to him, and to whom he was dear. The family at Shoulthwaite Mosshad been threatened with eviction. The ransom was Ralph's liberty. Simhad been sent to say so. But a graver issue lay close behind. Thisshadow of a great crime lay over Ralph's life. If Robbie couldovertake Sim before Sim had time to overtake Ralph, he might prevent aterrible catastrophe. Even so fearless a man as Ralph was would surelyhesitate if he knew, though but on hearsay, that perhaps a horribleaccusation awaited him at Carlisle. 

That accusation might be false--it must be false. Robbie believed hecould swear that it was a lie if he stood before the Throne of Grace. But of what avail was the innocence of the accused in days when anindictment was equal to a conviction!

Sim was an old man, or at least he was past his best. He was a frailcreature, unable to travel fast. There was little doubt in the mind ofthe lusty young dalesman as he took his "lang stroke o' the ground"that before many hours had gone by Sim would be overtaken and broughtback. 

It was Sunday morning when little Liza Branthwaite ferreted Robbie outof the Red Lion, and it was no later than noon of the same day whenRobbie began his journey. During the first few miles he could discoverno trace of Sim. This troubled him a little, until he reflected thatit was late at night when Sim started away, and that consequently thetailor would pass the little wayside villages unobserved. After nineor ten miles had been covered, Robbie met with persons who hadencountered Sim. The accounts given of him were as painful as theywere in harmony with his character. Sim had shrunk from thesalutations of those who knew him, and avoided with equal timidity thegaze of those by whom he was not known. The suspicion of beingeverywhere suspected was with the poor outcast abroad as well as athome. 

Quickly as the darkness fell in on that Sunday in mid-winter, Robbiehad travelled many miles before the necessity occurred to him ofseeking lodgings for the night. He had intended to reach the littletown of Winander that day, and he had done so. It was late, however, and after a frugal supper, Robbie went off to bed. 

Early next day, Monday, the young dalesman set about inquiries amongthe townspeople as to whether a man answering to the description whichhe gave of Sim had been seen to pass through the town. Many personsdeclared that they had seen such a one the day before, and someinsisted that he was still in Winander. An old fellow in a smock, who, being obviously beyond all active labor, employed his time andenergies in the passive occupation of watching everybody from thecorner of a street, and in chatting with as many as had conversationto spend on his superannuated garrulity, affirmed very positively thathe had talked with Sim as recently as an hour ago. 

Right or wrong, this was evidence of Sim's whereabouts which Robbiefelt that he could not ignore. He must at least test its truthfulnessby walking through the streets and inquiring further. It would be idleto travel on until this clew had been cleared up. 

And so Robbie spent almost the whole day in what proved to be afruitless search. It was apparent that if Sim had been in Winander hehad left it on Sunday. Robbie reflected with vexation that it was nowthe evening of Monday, and that he was farther behind the man of whomhe was in pursuit than he had been at starting from Wythburn. 

In no very amiable mood Robbie set out afresh just as darkness wascoming on, and followed the road as far as the village of Staveley. Here there was nothing more hopeful to do at a late hour on Mondaynight than to seek for a bed and sleep. On Tuesday morning Robbie lostno time in making inquiries, but he wasted several hours inascertaining particulars that were at all reliable and satisfactory. No one appeared to have seen such a man as Sim, either to-day, yesterday, or on Sunday. 

Robbie was perplexed. He was in doubt if it might not be his bestcourse to turn back, when a happy inspiration occurred to him. 

What had the people said of Sim's shyness and timidity? Why, it was asclear as noonday that the poor little man would try to avoid thevillages by making a circuit of the fields about them. 

With this conviction, Robbie set out again, intending to make no pausein his next stage until he had reached Kendal. Upon approaching thevillages he looked about for the footpaths that might be expected todescribe short arcs around them; and, following one of these, hepassed a cottage that stood at a corner of a lane. He had made manyfruitless inquiries hitherto, and had received replies that had beenworse than valueless; but he could not resist the temptation to ask atthis house. 

Walking round the cottage to where the door opened on the frontfarthest from the lane, Robbie entered the open porch. His unfamiliarfootstep brought from an inner room an old woman with a brown andwrinkled face, who curtsied, and, speaking in a meek voice, asked, orseemed to ask, his pleasure. 

"Your pardon, mistress, " said Robbie, "but mayhap you've seen a littleman with gray hair and a long beard going by?"

"Do you say a laal man?" asked the old woman. 

"Ey, wrinkled and wizzent a bit?" said Robbie. 

"Yes, " said the woman. 

Robbie was uncertain as to what the affirmation implied. Taking it tobe a sort of request for a more definite description, he continued, --

"A blate and fearsome sort of a fellow, you know. "

"Yes, " repeated the woman, and then there was a pause. 

Robbie, getting impatient of the delay, was turning on his heel withscant civility, when the old woman said, "Are you seeking him foraught that is good?"

"Why, ey, mother, " said Robbie, regaining his former position and hisaccustomed geniality in an instant. "Do you know his name?" she asked. 

"Sim--that's to say Sim Stagg. Don't you fear me, mother; I'm a friendto Sim, take my word. "

"You're a good-like sort of a lad, I think, " said the old woman; "Simwas here ower the night last night. "

"Where is he now?" said Robbie. 

"He left me this morning at t' edge o' t' daylight. He axed for t'coach to Lancaster, and I telt him it started frae the Woodman, inKirklands, and so he went off there. "

"Kirklands; where's Kirklands?"

"In Kendal, near the church. "

It turned out that the good old woman had known Sim many years before, when they were neighbors in a street of a big town. She had been withSim's wife in her last illness, and had cared for his little daughterwhen the child's mother died. 

Robbie did not know when the coach might leave Kendal for Lancaster;Sim was several hours in front of them, and therefore he took a hastyleave. The old woman, who lived a solitary life in the cottage, lookedafter the young man with eyes which seemed to say that, in spite ofthe instinct which prompted her to confide in Robbie, she halfregretted what she had done. 

CHAPTER XXX. A RACE AGAINST LIFE. 

No sooner had Ralph discovered that the straggler from the North wholay insensible in the yard of the inn at Kendal was Simeon Stagg thanhe pushed through the crowd, and lifting the thin and wasted figure inhis arms, ordered a servant to show him to a room within. 

There in a little while sensibility returned to Sim, who was sufferingfrom nothing more serious than exhaustion and the excitement by whichit had been in part occasioned. 

When in the first moment of consciousness he opened his eyes and metthe eyes of Ralph, who was bending above him, he exhibited no sign ofsurprise. With a gesture indicative of irritation he brushed his longand bony hand over his face, as though trying to shut out a visionthat had more than once before haunted and tormented him. But when herealized the reality of the presence of the man whom he had followedover many weary miles, whose face had followed him in hisdreams, --when it was borne in upon his scattered sense that Ralph Raywas actually here at his side, holding his hand and speaking to him inthe deep tones which he knew so well, --then the poor worn wayfarercould no longer control the emotion that surged upwards from hisheart. 

It was a wild, disjointed, inconsequential tale which Sim thereupontold, which he had come all this way to tell, and which now revealedits full import to the eager listener in spite of the narrator'seagerness rather than by means of it. Amid spasms of feeling, however, the story came at length to an end; and gathering up the threads of itfor himself, and arranging them in what seemed to him their naturalsequence, Ralph understood all that it was essential to understand ofhis own position and the peril of those who were dear to him. That hewas to be outlawed, and that his estate was to be confiscated; thathis mother, who still lived, was, with his brother and Rotha, to beturned into the road, --this injustice was only too imminent. 

"In a fortnight--was it so?" he asked. "In a fortnight they were to beback? A fortnight from what day?"

"Saturday, " said Sim; "that's to say, a week come Saturday next. "

"And this is Tuesday; ten full days between, " said Ralph, walking withdrooping head across the room; "I must leave immediately for theNorth. Heigh!" opening a window, and hailing the ostler who at themoment went past, "when does your next coach start for the North?"

"At nine o'clock, sir. "

"Nine to-night? So late? Have you nothing before--no wagon--nothing?"

"Nothing before, sir; 'cept--leastways--no, nothing before. Ye see, itwaits for the coach from Lancaster, and takes on its passengers. "

"John, John, " cried the landlady, who had overheard the conversationfrom a neighboring window, "mayhap the gentleman would like to take apair of horses a stage or two an he's in a hurry. "

"Have you a horse that can cover thirty miles to-day?" said Ralph. 

"That we have, yer honor, and mair ner ya horse. "

"Where will the coach be at six to-morrow?"

"At Penrith, I reckon, " said the ostler, lifting his cap, andscratching his head with the air of one who was a good deal uncertainalike of his arithmetic and his geography. 

"How long do they reckon the whole journey?"

"Twelve hours, I've heeard--that's if nothing hinders; weather, northe like. "

"Get your horse ready at once, my lad, and then take me to yourlandlady. "

"You'll not leave me behind, Ralph, " said Sim when Ralph had shut backthe casement. 

"You're very weak, old friend; it will be best for you to sleep hereto-day, and take to-night's Carlisle coach as far back as Mardale. Itwill be early morning when the coach gets there, and at daybreak youcan walk over the Stye Pass to Shoulthwaite. "

"I dare not, I dare not; no, no, don't leave me here. " Sim'simportunity was irresistible, and Ralph yielded more out of pity thanby persuasion. A second horse was ordered, and in less than half anhour the travellers, fortified by a meal, were riding side by side onthe high road from Kendal to the North. 

Sim was not yet so far recovered from his exhaustion but that theexertion of riding--at any time a serious undertaking to him--wasquick in producing symptoms of collapse. But he held on to his purposeof accompanying Ralph on his northward journey with a tenacity whichwas unshaken either by his companion's glances of solicitude or yet bythe broad mouthed merriment of the rustics, who obviously found itamusing to watch the contortions of an ill-graced, weak, andspiritless rider, and to fire off at him as he passed the sallies ofan elephantine humor. 

When the pair started away from Kendal, Sim had clearly no thought butthat their destination was to be Wythburn. It was therefore with somesurprise and no little concern that he observed that Ralph took theroad to the right which led to Penrith and the northeast, when theyarrived at that angle of the highway outside the town where twoturnpikes met, and one went off to Wythburn and the Northwest. 

"I should have reckoned that the nighest way home was throughStaveley, " Sim said with hesitation. 

"We can turn to the left at Mardale, " said Ralph, and pushed onwithout further explanation. "Do you say that mother has never oncespoken?" he asked, drawing up at one moment to give Sim a littlebreathing space. 

"Never once, Ralph--mute as the grave, she is--poor body. "

"And Rotha--Rotha--"

"Yes, the lass is with her, she is. "

"God bless her in this world and the next!"

Then the two pushed on again, with a silence between them that wasmore touching than speech. They rode long and fast this spell, andwhen they drew up once more, Ralph turned in his saddle and saw thatthe ruins that stood at the top of the Kendal Scar were already farbehind them. 

"It's a right good thing that you've given up your solitary life onthe fells, Sim. It wilt cheer me a deal, old friend, to think you'llalways live with the folks at Shoulthwaite. " Ralph spoke as if hehimself had never to return. Sim felt this before Ralph had realizedthe implication of his words. 

"It's hard for a hermit to be a good man, " continued Ralph; "he beginswith being miserable and ends with being selfish and superstitious, and perhaps mad. Have you never marked it?"

"Maybe so, Ralph; maybe so. It's like it's because the world's bittercruel that so many are buryin' theirsels afore they're dead. "

"Then it's because they expect too much of the world, " said Ralph. "Weshould take the world on easier terms. Fallible humanity must have itsweaknesses and poor human life its disasters, and where these aremighty and inevitable, what folly is greater than to fly from them orto truckle to them, to make terms with them? Our duty is simply toendure them, to endure them--that's it, old friend. "

There was no answer that Sim could make to this. Ralph was speaking tothe companion who rode by his side; but in fact he seemed to beaddressing himself. 

"And to see a man buy a reprieve from Death!" he continued. "Never dothat--never? Did you ever think of it, Sim, that what happens isalways the best?"

"It scarce looks like it, Ralph; that it don't. "

"Then it's because you don't look long enough. In the end, it is_always_ the best that happens. Truth and the right are the last onthe field; it always has been so, and always will be; it only needsthat you should wait to the close of the battle to see _that_. "

There would have been a sublime solemnity in these rude words of arude man of action if Sim had divined that they were in fact themeditations of one who believed himself to be already under the shadowof his death. 

 * * * * *

The horses broke again into a canter, and it was long before the reinsof the riders brought them to another pause. The day was bitterlycold, and, notwithstanding the exertion of riding, Sim's teethchattered sometimes as with ague, and his fingers were numb and stiff. It was an hour before noon when the travellers left Kendal, and nowthey had ridden for two hours. The brighter clouds of the morning haddisappeared, and a dull, leaden sky was overhead. Gradually the heavyatmosphere seemed to close about them, yet a cutting wind blew smartlyfrom the east. 

"A snowstorm is coming, Sim. Look yonder; how thick it hangs over theGray Crag sheer ahead! We must push on, or we'll be overtaken. "

"How long will it be coming?" asked Sim. 

"Five hours full, perhaps longer, " said Ralph; "we may reach Penrithbefore that time. "

"Penrith!"

Sim's tone was one of equal surprise and fear. 

Ralph gave him a quick glance; then reaching over the neck of hishorse to stroke its long mane, he said, with the manner of one whomakes too palpable an effort to change the subject of conversation:"Isn't this mare something like old Betsy? I couldn't but mark howlike she was to our old mare that is lost when the ostler brought herinto the yard this morning. "

Sim made no reply. 

"Poor Betsy!" said Ralph, and dropped his head on to his breast. 

Another long canter. When the riders drew up again it was to take asteadier view of some objects in the distance which had simultaneouslyawakened their curiosity. 

"There seem to be many of them, " said Ralph; and, shielding his earfrom the wind, he added, "do you catch their voices?"

"Are they quarrelling?--is it a riot?" Sim asked. 

"Quick, and let us see. "

In a few moments they had reached a little wayside village. 

There they found children screaming and women wringing their hands. Inthe high road lay articles of furniture, huddled together, thrown inheaps one on another, and broken into fragments in the fall. Asergeant and company of musketeers were even then in the midst of thispitiful work of devastation, turning the people out of their littlethatched cottages and flinging their poor sticks of property out afterthem. Everywhere were tumult and ruin. Old people were lying on thecold earth by the wayside. They had been born in these houses; theyhad looked to die in these homes; but houses and homes were to betheirs no more. Amidst the wreck strode the gaunt figure of a factor, directing and encouraging, and firing off meantime a volley ofrevolting oaths. 

"What's the name of this place?" asked Ralph of a man who stood, withfury in his eyes, watching the destruction of his home. 

"Hollowbank, " answered the man between his teeth. 

Ralph remembered that here had lived a well-known Royalist, whom theParliament had dispossessed of his estates. The people of this valleyhad been ardent Parliamentarians during the long campaign. Could it bethat his lordship had been repossessed of his property, and was takingthis means of revenging himself upon his tenantry for resisting thecause he had fought for?

An old man lay by the hedge looking down to the ground with eyes thattold only of despair. A little fair-haired boy, with fear in hisinnocent face, was clinging to his grandfather's cloak and cryingpiteously. 

"Get off with you and begone!" cried the factor, rapping out anothervolley. 

"Is it Hollowbank you call this place?" said Ralph, looking the fellowin the face. "Hellbank would be a fitter name. "

The man answered nothing, but his eyes glared angrily as Ralph putspur to his horse and rode on. 

"God in heaven!" cried Ralph when Sim had come up by his side, "tothink that work like this goes on in God's sight!"

"Yet you say the best happens, " said Sim. 

"It does; it does; God knows it does, for all that, " insisted Ralph. "But to think of these poor souls thrown out into the road likecattle. Cattle? To cattle they would be merciful!--thrown out into theroad to lie and die and rot!"

"Have they been outlawed--these men?" said Sim. 

"Damnation!" cried Ralph, as though at Sim's ignorant word a new andterrible thought had flashed upon his mind and wounded him like adagger. 

Then they rode long in silence. 

Away they went, mile after mile, without rest and without pause, through dales and over uplands, past meres and across rivers, andstill with the gathering blackness overhead. 

What force of doom was spurring them on in this race against Life? Itwas the depth of a Cumbrian winter, and the days were short. Clearlythey would never reach Penrith to-night. The delay at Hollowbank andthe shortened twilight before a coming snowstorm must curtail theirjourney. They agreed to put up for the night at the inn at Askham. 

As they approached that house of entertainment they observed that thecoach which had left Carlisle that morning was in the act of drawingup at the door. It waited only while three or four passengersalighted, and then drove on and passed them in its journey south. 

Five hours hence it would pass the northward coach from Kendal. 

When Ralph and Sim dismounted at the Fox and Hounds, at Askham, thelandlord came hastily to the door. He was a brawny dalesman, ofperhaps thirty. He was approaching the travellers with the customarysalutations of a host, when, checking himself, and coming to Ralph, hesaid in a low tone, "I ask pardon, sir, but is your nameRay?--Captain--hush!" he whispered; and then, becoming suddenly mute, without waiting for a reply to his questions, he handed the horses toa man who came up at the moment, and beckoned Ralph and Sim to followhim, not through the front of the house, but towards the yard that ledto the back. 

"Don't you know me?" he said as soon as he had conveyed them, as if bystealth, into a little room detached from the rest of the house. 

"Surely it's Brown? And how are you, my lad?"

"Gayly; and you seem gayly yourself, and not much altered since thegreat days at Dunbar--only a bit lustier, mayhap, and with somethingmore of beard. I'll never forget the days I served under you!"

"That's well, Brown; but why did you bring us round here?" said Ralph. 

"Hush!" whispered the landlord. "I've a pack of the worst bloodhoundsfrom Carlisle just come. They're this minute down by the coach. I knowthe waistrels. They've been here before to-day. They'd know you to acertainty, and woe's me if once the gommarels come abreast of you. It's like I'd never forgive myself if my old captain came by any illluck in my house. "

"How long will they stay?" "Until morning, it's like. "

"How far is it to the next inn?"

"Three miles to Clifton. "

"We shall sleep till daybreak to-morrow, Brown, on the settles youhave here. And now, my lad, bloodhounds or none on our trail, bring ussomething to eat. "

CHAPTER XXXI. ROBBIE, SPEED ON!

Upon reaching the Woodman at Kendal, Robbie found little reason todoubt that Sim had been there and had gone. A lively youngchambermaid, who replied to his questions, told him the story of Sim'stemporary illness and subsequent departure with another man. 

"What like of a man was he, lass--him as took off the little fellow?"asked Robbie. 

"A very personable sort; maybe as fine a breed as you'd see here andthere one, " replied the girl. 

"Six foot high haply, and square up on his legs?" asked Robbie, throwing back his body into an upright posture as a supplementary andexplanatory gesture. 

"Ey, as big as Bully Ned and as straight as Robin the Devil, " said thegirl. 

Robbie was in ignorance of the physical proportions of these localworthies, but he was nevertheless in little doubt as to the identityof his man. It was clear that Sim and Ralph had met on this spot onlya few hours ago, and had gone off together. 

"What o'clock might it be when they left?" said Robbie. 

"Nigh to noon--maybe eleven or so. "

It was now two, and Ralph and Sim, riding good horses, must be manymiles away. Robbie's vexation was overpowering when he thought of thehours that he had wasted at Winander and of the old gossip at thestreet corner who had prompted him to the fruitless search. 

"The feckless old ninny, " he thought in his mute indignation; "when anold man comes to be an old woman it's nothing but right that he shoulddie, and have himself done with. "

Robbie was unable to hire a horse in order to set off in pursuit ofhis friends; nor were his wits so far distraught by the difficultiestormenting them that he was unable to perceive that, even if he couldafford to ride, his chance would be inconsiderable of overtaking twomen who had already three hours' start of him. 

He went into the taproom to consult the driver of the Carlisle coach, who was taking a glass before going to bed--his hours of work being inthe night and his hours of rest being in the day. That authorityrecommended, with the utmost positiveness of advice, that Robbieshould take a seat in his coach when he left for the North that night. 

"But you don't start till nine o'clock, they tell me?" said Robbie. 

"Well, man, what of that?" replied the driver; "yon two men will haveto sleep to-night, I reckon; and they'll put up to a sartentysomewhear, and that's how we'll come abreast on 'em. It's no usetearan like a crazy thing. "

The driver had no misgivings; his conjecture seemed reasonable, andwhether his plan were feasible or not, it was the only one available. So Robbie had to make a virtue of a necessity, as happens to many aman of more resource. 

He was perhaps in his secret heart the better reconciled to a fewhours' delay in his present quarters, because he fancied that thelittle chambermaid had exhibited some sly symptoms of partiality forhis society in the few passages of conversation which he had exchangedwith her. 

She was a bright, pert young thing, with just that dash of freedom inher manners which usually comes of the pursuit of her public calling;and it is only fair to Robbie's modesty to say that he had notdeceived himself very grossly in his estimate of the interest he hadsuddenly excited in her eyes. It was probably a grievous derelictionof duty to think of a love encounter, however blameless, at a juncturelike this--not to speak of the gravity of the offence of forgettingthe absent Liza. But Robbie was undergoing a forced interlude in themarch; the lady who dominated his affections was unhappily too faraway to appease them, and he was not the sort of young fellow whocould resist the assault of a pair of coquettish black eyes. 

Returning from the taproom to announce his intention of waiting forthe coach, Robbie was invited to the fire in the kitchen, --a privilegefor which the extreme coldness of the day was understood to account. Here he lit a pipe, and discoursed on the route that would probably bepursued by his friends. 

It was obvious that Ralph and Sim had not taken the direct road hometo Wythburn, for if they had done so he must have met them as he camefrom Staveley. There was the bare possibility that he had missed themby going round the fields to the old woman's cottage; but this seemedunlikely. 

"Are you quite sure it's an _old man_ you're after?" said the girl, with a dig of emphasis that was meant to insinuate a doubt of Robbie'seagerness to take so much trouble in running after anything lessenticing than one of another sex who might not be old. 

Robbie protested on his honor that _he_ was never known to run afteryoung women, --a statement which did not appear to find a very readyacceptance. The girl was coming and going from the kitchen in thedischarge of her duties, and on one of her journeys she brought aparchment map in her hand, saying: "Here's a paper that Jim, thedriver, told me to show you. It gives all the roads atween Kendal andCarlisle. So you may see for yourself whether your friends could getround about to Wy'bern. "

Robbie spread out the map on the kitchen table, and at once proceeded, with the help of the chambermaid, to trace out the roads that wereopen to Ralph and Sim to take. It was a labyrinthine web, that map, and it taxed the utmost ingenuity of both Robbie and his littleacquaintance to make head or tail of it. 

"Here you are, " cried Robbie, with the air of a man making a valuablediscovery, "here's the milestones--one, two, three--them's milestones, thou knows. "

"Tut, you goose; that's only the scale, " said the girl; "see what'sprinted, 'Scale of miles. '"

"Oh, ey, lass, " said Robbie, not feeling sure what "scale" might mean, but too shrewd to betray his ignorance a second time in the presenceof this learned chambermaid. 

The riddle, nevertheless, defied solution. However much they poredover the map, it was still a maze of lines. 

"It's as widderful as poor old Sim's face, " said Robbie. 

Robbie and the chambermaid put their heads together in more sensesthan one. The map was most inconveniently small. Two folks could notconsult it at the same time without coming into really uncomfortableproximity. 

"There you are, " said Robbie, reaching over, pipe in hand, to wherethe girl was intent on some minute point. 

Suddenly there was a cloud of smoke over the map. It also envelopedthe students of geography. Then, somehow, there was a sly smack oflips. 

"And there _you_ are, " said the girl, with a roguish laugh, as shebrought Robbie a great whang over the ear and shot away. 

Jim, the driver, came into the kitchen at that moment on his way tobed, and unravelled the mystery of the map by showing that it waspossible for Robbie's friends to go off the Carlisle road towardsGaskarth and Wythburn at the village of Askham. 

Robbie was satisfied with this explanation, and did his best under thecircumstances to rest content until nine o'clock with the harbor intowhich he had drifted. He succeeded more completely, perhaps, in thisendeavor than might be expected, when the peril of his friends and hisallegiance to Liza Branthwaite is taken into account. 

But when nine o'clock had come and gone, and still the coach stood inthe yard of the inn, Robbie's sense of duty overcame his appetite forwhat he would have called a "spoag. " It was usual for the Carlislecoach to await the coach from Lancaster, and it was because the latterhad not yet arrived at Kendal that the former was unable to departfrom it. Robbie's impatience waxed considerably during the half-hourthence ensuing; but when ten o'clock had struck, and still no definitemovement was made, his indignation became boisterous. 

There were to be four inside passengers, all women; and cold as thenight might prove, Robbie's seat must be outside. The protestations ofall five passengers were at length too loud, and their importunity wastoo earnest, to admit of longer delay. So the driver put in his horsesand took his seat on the box. 

This had scarcely been done when the horn of the Lancaster coach washeard in the distance, and some further waiting ensued. 

"Let's hope you'll have no traffic out of, it when it does come, " saidRobbie with a dash of spite. A few minutes afterwards the late coachdrove into the yard and discharged its travellers. 

Two of these, who were going forward to Carlisle, climbed the ladderand took seats behind Robbie. It was too dark to see who or what theywere except that they were men, that they were wrapped in long cloaks, and wore caps that fitted close to their heads and cheeks, being tiedover their beards and beneath their chins. 

The much-maligned Jim now gave a smart whip to his horses, and in amoment more the coach was on the road. 

The night was dark and bitterly cold, and once outside the town theglimmer of the lamps which the coach carried was all the light thepassengers had for miles. 

A slight headache from which Robbie had suffered at intervals sincethe ducking of his head in the river at Wythburn had now quitedisappeared, but a curious numbness, added to a degree ofstupefaction, began to take its place. As the coach jogged along onits weary journey, not even the bracing surroundings of Robbie'spresent elevated and exposed position had the effect of keeping himactively awake. He dozed in short snatches and awoke with slightshudders, feeling alternately hot and cold. 

In one of his intervals of wakefulness he heard fragments of aconversation which was being sustained by the strangers behind him. Robbie had neither activity nor curiosity to waste on their talk, buthe could not avoid listening. 

"He would have been the best agent in the King's service to acertainty, " said one. "He's the 'cutest man _I_ ever tackled. It'sparlish odd how he baffles us. "

The speaker was clearly a Cumbrian. 

"Shaf!" replied his companion, in a kind of whisper, "he's a pauchtieclot-heed. I'll have him at Haribee in a crack. "

The second speaker was as clearly a Scot who was struggling againstthe danger there might be of his speech bewraying him. 

"Well, you're pretty smart on 'im. I never could rightly make aught ofthy hate of 'im. "

"Tut, man, live and learn. Let me have him in Wilfrey Lawson's hands, and ye'll see what for I hate the proud-stomached taistrel. "

"Well, " said the Cumbrian, in a tone indicative of more resignationthan he had previously exhibited, "I've no more cause to love 'im thanyourself. You saw 'im knock me down in the streets of Lancaster. "

"May ye hang him up for it, Bailiff Scroope, " replied the Scot. "Mayye hang him up for it on the top of Haribee!"

Robbie understood enough of this conversation to realize the characterand pursuit of his travelling companions; but the details and tone ofthe dialogue were not of an interest sufficiently engrossing to keephim awake. He dozed afresh, and in the unconsciousness of a fitfulsleep he passed a good many miles of his dreary night ride. 

A sudden glare in his eyes awoke him at one moment. They were passingthe village of Hollowbank. Fires were lit on the road, and darkfigures were crouching around them. Robbie was too drowsy to ask themeaning of these sights, and he soon slept once more. 

When he awoke again, he thought he caught the echo of the word"Wythburn" as having been spoken behind him; but whether this weremore than a delusion of the ear, such as sometimes comes at the momentof awakening, he could not be sure until (now fully awake) hedistinctly heard the Cumbrian use the name of Ralph Ray. 

Robbie's curiosity was instantly aroused, and in the effort to shakeoff the weight of his drowsiness he made a backward movement of thehead, which was perceived by the strangers. He was conscious that oneof the men had risen, and was leaning over to the driver to ask who hehimself might be, and where he was going. 

"A country lad of some sort, " said Jim. "I know nought, no mair. "

"I thought maybe he were a friend, " said the stranger, withquestionable veracity. 

The conversation thereupon proceeded with unrestrained vigor. 

"It baffles me, his going to Carlisle. As I say, he's a 'cute sort. What's his game in this hunt?"

"Shaf! he's bagged himself, stump and rump. "

"I don't mind how soon we've done with this trapesing here and there. Which will be the 'dictment, think ye?"

"Small doubt which. " "Murder, eh? Can you manage it, Wilfrey andyourself?"

"Leave that to the pair of us. "

The perspiration was standing in beads on every inch of Robbie's body. He was struggling with an almost overpowering temptation to test thestrength of his muscles at pitching certain weighty "bodies" off thetop of that coach, in order to relieve it of some of the physicalburden and a good deal of the moral iniquity under which it seemed tohim just then to groan. 

Snow began now to fall, and the driver gave the whip to his horses inorder to reach a village which was not far away. 

"We'll be bound to put up for the night, " he said; "this snowstormwill soon stop us. "

The two strangers were apparently much concerned at the necessity, andused every available argument to induce the driver to continue hisjourney. 

Robbie could not bring himself to a conclusion as to whether it wouldbe best for his purpose that the coach should stop, and so keep backthe vagabonds who were sitting behind him, or go on, and so help himto overtake Ralph. The driver in due course settled the problem verydecisively by drawing up at the inn of the hamlet of Mardale andproceeding to take his horses off the chains. 

"There be some folk as have mercy neither on man nor beast, " he saidin reply to a protest from the strangers. 

Jim's sentiment was more apposite than he thought. 

The two men grumbled their way into the inn. Robbie remained outsideand gave the driver a hand with the horses. 

"Where's Haribee?" he asked. 

"In Carlisle, " said the driver. 

"What place is it?" asked Robbie. 

"Haribee?--why, the place of execution. "

When left alone outside in the snow, Robbie began to reflect on theposition of affairs. It was past midnight. The two strangers, who wereobviously in pursuit of Ralph, would stay in this house at least untilmorning. Ralph himself was probably asleep at this moment, some tenmiles or thereabouts farther up the road. 

It was bitterly cold. Robbie's hands and face were numbed. The flakesof snow fell thicker and faster than before. 

Robbie perceived that there was only one chance that would make itworth while to have come on this journey: the chance that he couldovertake Ralph before the coach and its passengers could overtake him. 

To do this he must walk the whole night through, let it rain or snowor freeze. 

He could and he would do it!

Bravely, Robbie! A greater issue than you know of hangs on yourjourney. On! on! on!

CHAPTER XXXII. WHAT THE SNOW GAVE UP. 

The agitation of the landlord of the inn at Askham, who was an oldParliamentarian, on discovering the captain under whom he had servedin the person of Ralph Ray, threatened of itself to betray him. Withinfinite perturbation he came and went, and set before Ralph and Simsuch plain fare as his house could furnish after the more luxuriousappetites of the Royalist visitors had been satisfied. 

The room into which the travellers had been smuggled was a wing of theold house, open to the whitewashed rafters, and with the customarybroad hearth. Armor hung about the walls--a sword here, a cutlassthere, and over the rannel-tree a coat of chain steel. It was clearlythe living-room of the landlord's family, and was jealously guardedfrom the more public part of the inn. But when the door was open intothe passage that communicated with the rest of the house, the loudvoices of the Royalists could be heard in laughter or dispute. 

When the family vacated this room for the convenience of Ralph andSim, they left behind at the fireside, sitting on a stool, a littleboy of three or four, who was clearly the son of the landlord. Ralphsat down, and took the little fellow between his knees. The child hadbig blue eyes and thin curls of yellow hair. The baby lips answered tohis smile, and the baby tongue prattled in his ear with the easyfamiliarity which children extend only to those natures that hold thetalisman of child-love. 

"And what is _your_ name, my little man?" said Ralph. 

"Darling, " answered the child, looking up frankly into Ralph's face. 

"Good. And anything else?"

"Ees, Villie. "

"Do they not say you are like your mother, Willie?" said Ralph, brushing the fair curls from the boy's forehead. "Me mammy's darling, "said the little one, with innocent eyes and a pretty curve of thelittle mouth. 

"Surely. And what will you be when you grow up, my sunny boy?"

"A man. "

"Ah! and a wit, eh? But what will you be at your work--a farmer?"

"Me be a soldier. " The little face grew bright at the prospect. 

"Not that, sweetheart. If you have luck like most of us, perhapsyou'll have enough fighting in your life without making it your tradeto fight. But you don't understand me yet, Willie, darling?"

The little one's father entered the room at this moment, and theopening of the door brought the sound of jumbled voices from a distantapartment. The noisy party of Royalists apparently belonged to thenumber of those who hold that a man's manners in an inn may properlybe the reverse of what they are expected to be at home. The loudersuch roysterers talk, the more they rap out oaths, the oftener theybellow for the waiters and slap them on the back, the better theythink they are welcome in a house of public entertainment. 

Amidst the tumult that came from a remote part of the inn a door washeard to open, and a voice was distinguishable above the rest callinglustily for the landlord. 

"I must go off to them, " said that worthy. "They expect me to standhost as well as landlord, and sit with them at their drinking. "

When the door closed again, Sim lifted the boy on to his knee, andlooked at him with eyes full of tenderness. The little fellow returnedhis gaze with a bewildered expression that seemed to ask a hundredsilent questions of poor Sim's wrinkled cheeks and long, gray, straggling hair. 

"I mind me when my own lass was no bigger nor this, " said Sim. 

Ralph did not answer, but turned his head aside and listened. 

"She was her mammy's darling, too, she was. "

Sim's voice was thick in his throat. 

"And mine as well, " he added. "We used to say to her, laughing andteasing like, 'Who will ye marry, Rotie?'--we called her Rotiethen, --'who will ye marry, Rotie, when ye grow up to be a big, bigwoman?' 'My father, ' she would say, and throw her little arms about myneck and kiss me. "

Sim raised his hard fingers to his forehead to cover his eyes. 

Ralph still sat silent, his head aside, looking into the fire. 

"That's many and many a year agone; leastways, so it seems. My wifewas living then. We were married in Gaskarth, but work was bad, and wepacked up and went to live for a while in a great city, leagues andleagues to the south. And there my poor girl, Josephine--I called herJosie for short, and because it was more kind and close like--there mypoor girl fell ill and died. Her face got paler day by day, but shekept a brave heart--she was just such like as Rotha that way--and shetended the house till the last, she did. "

A louder burst of merriment than usual came from the distant room. Thefellows were singing a snatch together. 

"Do you know, Rotha called her mother, Josie, too. I checked her, Idid; but my poor girl she said, said she, 'Never mind; the little onehas been hearkening to yourself. ' You'd have cried, I think, if you'dbeen with us the day she died. I was sitting at work, and she calledout that she felt faint; so I jumped up and held her in my arms andsent our little Rotha for a neighbor. But it was too late. My poordarling was gone in a minute, and when the wee thing came running backto us, with red cheeks, she looked frightened, and cried, 'Josie!Josie!' 'My poor Rotie, my poor little lost Rotie, ' I said, 'our dearJosie, she is in heaven!' Then the little one cried, 'No, no, no'; andwept, and wept till--till--_I_ wept with her. "

The door of the distant apartment must have been again thrown open, for a robustious fellow could be heard to sing a stave of a drinkingsong. The words came clearly in the silence that preceded a generaloutburst of chorus:--

 "Then to the Duke fill, Fill up the glass; The son of our martyr, beloved of the King. "

"We buried her there, " continued Sim; "ay, we buried her in the town;and, with the crowds and the noise above her, there sleeps my braveJosie, and I shall see her face no more. "

Ralph rose up, and walked to the door by which he and Sim had enteredfrom the yard of the inn. He opened it and stood for a moment on thethreshold. The snow was falling in thick flakes. Already it coveredthe ground and lay heavy on the roofs of the outhouses and on theboughs of the leafless trees. A great calm was on the earth and in theair. 

 * * * * *

Robbie speed on! Lose not an hour now, for an hour lost may be alife's loss. 

 * * * * *

Ralph was turning back into the room, and bolting the outer door, whenthe landlord entered hurriedly from the passage. He was excited. 

"Is it not--captain, tell me--is it not Wy'bern--your father'shome--Wy'bern, on Bracken Mere?"

"It _was_ my father's home--why?"

"Then the bloodhounds _are_ on your trail!"

The perspiration was standing in beads on Brown's forehead. 

"They talk of nothing to each other but of a game that's coming on atWy'bern, and what they'll do for some one that they never name. Ifthey'd but let wit who he is I'd--I'd know them. "

"Landlord, landlord!" cried a man whose uncertain footsteps could beheard in the passage, --"landlord, bring your two guests to us--bringthem for a glass. "

The fellow was making his way to the room into which Ralph and Sim hadbeen hustled. The landlord slid out of it through the smallestaperture between the door and its frame that could discharge a man ofhis sturdy physique. When the door closed behind him he could be heardto protest against any intention of disturbing his visitors. The twogentlemen had made a long journey, travelling two nights and two daysat a stretch; so they'd gone off to bed and were snoring hard by thistime; the landlord could stake his solemn honor upon it. 

The tipsy Royalist seemed content with the apology for non-appearance, and returned to his companions bellowing, --

 "Let Tories guard the King; Let Whigs in halters swing. "

Ralph walked uneasily across the room. Could it be that these men werealready on their way to Wythburn to carry out the processes of the lawwith respect to himself and his family?

In another minute the landlord returned. 

"It's as certain as the Lord's above us, " he whispered. "They wantedto get to you to have you drink the King's health with them, and whenI swore you were asleep they ax't if you had no horses with you. Isaid you had one horse. 'One horse among two, ' they said, with a greatgoasteren laugh; 'why, then, they're Jock and his mither. ' 'Onehorse, ' I said, 'or maybe two. ' 'We must have 'em, ' they said; 'wetake possession on 'em in the King's service. We've got to cross thefells to Wy'bern in the morning. '"

"What are they, Brown?"

"Musketeers, three of 'em, and ya sour fellow that limps of a leg;they call him Constable David. "

"Let them have the horses. It will save trouble to you. "

Then turning to Sim, Ralph added, "We must be stirring betimesto-morrow, old friend; the daybreak must see us on the road. The snowwill be thick in the morning, and perhaps the horses would havehindered us. Everything is for the best. "

The landlord lifted his curly-headed son (now fast asleep) from Sim'sknee, and left the room. 

Sim's excitement was plainly visible, and even Ralph could not concealhis own agitation. Was he to be too late to do what it had been in hismind to do?

"Did you say Saturday week next? It is Tuesday to-day, " said Ralph. 

"A week come Saturday--that was what Rotha told me. "

"It's strange--very strange!"

Ralph satisfied himself at length that the men in the adjoining, roomwere but going off to Wythburn nine days in advance in order to beready to carry into effect the intended confiscation immediately theirinstructions should reach them. The real evils by which Ralph wassurrounded were too numerous to allow of his wasting much apprehensionon possible ones. 

The din of the drinkers subsided at length, and toper after toper washelped to his bed. 

Then blankets were brought into Ralph and Sim, and rough shakedownswere made for them on the broad settles. Sim lay down and fell asleep. Ralph walked to and fro for hours. 

The quiet night was far worn towards morning when Brown, the landlord, tapped at the door and entered. 

"Not a wink will come to me, " he said, and sat down before thesmouldering fire. 

Ralph continued his perambulation to and fro, to and fro. He thoughtagain of what had occurred, and of what must soon occur to him andhis--of Wilson's death--his father's death--the flight of the horse onthe fells--all, all, centring somehow in himself. There must be sininvolved, though he knew not how--sin and its penalty. It was more andmore clear that God's hand was on him--on _him_. Every act of his ownhand turned to evil, and those whom he would bless were cursed. Andthis cruel scheme of evil--this fate--could it not be broken? Wasthere no propitiation? Yes, there was; there must be. That thing whichhe was minded to do would be expiation in the sight of Heaven. Godwould accept it for an atonement--yes; and there was soft balm like ariver of morning air in the thought. 

 * * * * *

Sim slept on, and Brown crouched over the fire, with his head in hishands and his elbows on his knees. There was not a motion within thehouse or without; the world lay still and white like death. 

Yes, it must be so; it must be that his life was to be the ransom. 

And it should be paid! Then the clouds would rise and the sun appear. 

"Fate that impedes, make way, make way! Mother, Rotha, Willy, wait, wait! I come, I come. "

Ralph's face brightened with the ecstasy of reflection. Was it frenzyin which his morbid idea had ended? If so, it was the frenzy of aself-sacrifice that was sublimity itself. 

At one moment Brown stirred in his seat and held his head aside, asthough listening for some sound in the far distance. 

"Did you hear it?" he asked, in a whisper that had an accent of fear. 

"Hear what?" asked Ralph. 

"The neigh of the horse, " said Brown. "I heard nothing" replied Ralph, and walked to the window, and listened. "What horse?" he asked, turning about. 

"Nay, none of us knows rightly. It's a horse that flies ower the fello' nights, and whinnies and whinnies. "

"One of the superstitions of your dale, --an old wife's tale, Isuppose. Has it been heard for years?"

"No, nor for weeks neither. "

Brown resumed his position in front of the fire, and the hours rolledon. 

When the first glimmer of gray appeared in the east, Sim was awakened, and Ralph and he, after eating a hurried breakfast, started away onfoot. 

 * * * * *

Where is Robbie now? A life hangs on the fortunes of this very hour!

 * * * * *

"Tell them the horses came from the Woodman at Kendal, " said Ralph ashe parted from his old comrade. "You've done better than save ourlives, Brown, God bless you!"

"That's a deal more nor my wages, captain, " said the honest fellow. 

The snow that had fallen during the night lay several inches deep onthe roads, and the hills were white as far up as the eye could tracethem. The dawn came slowly. The gray bars were long in stretching overthe sky, and longer in making way for the first glint of mingledyellow and pink. But the sunrise came at length. The rosy glaivesfloated upwards over a lake of light, and the broad continents ofcloud fell apart. Another day had breathed through another night. 

Ralph and Sim walked long in silence. The snow was glistening like amillion diamonds over the breast of a mountain, and the upright crags, on which it could not rest, were glittering like shields of steel. 

"How beautiful the world is!" said Ralph. 

"Ey, but it _is_ that, after all, " said Sim. 

"After all, " repeated Ralph. 

They had risen to the summit of a little hill, and they could see asthey began to descend on the other side that the snow lay in a deepdrift at the bottom. 

At the same moment they caught sight of some curious object lying inthe distance. 

"What thing is that, half covered with the snow?" asked Sim. 

"I cannot say. We'll soon see. "

Ralph spoke with panting breath. 

"Why, it's a horse!" said Sim. 

"Left out on such a night, too, " said Ralph. 

His face quivered with emotion. When he spoke again his voice washusky and his face livid. 

"Sim, what is that on its back?"

"Surely it's a pack, the black thing across it, " said Sim. 

Ralph caught his breath and stopped. Then he ran forward. 

"Great God!" he cried, "Betsy! It is Betsy, with the coffin. "

CHAPTER XXXIII. SEPULTURE AT LAST. 

Truly, it was Betsy, the mare which they had lost on that fearful dayat the Stye Head Pass. Her dread burden, the coffin containing thebody of Angus Ray, was still strapped to her back. None had come nighto her, or this must have been removed. She looked worn and tired asshe rose now to her feet amid the snow. The old creature was docileenough this morning, and when Ralph patted her head, she seemed toknow the hand that touched her. 

She had crossed a range of mountains, and lived, no doubt, on the thingrass of the fells. She must have famished quickly had the snow fallenbefore. 

Ralph was profoundly agitated. Never before had Sim seen him betraysuch deep emotion. If the horse with its burden had been asupernatural presence, the effect of its appearance on Ralph had notbeen greater. At first clutching the bridle, he looked like a man whowas puzzled to decide whether, after all, this thing that had occurredwere not rather a spectre that had wandered out of his dreams than atangible reality, a blessed and gracious reality, a mercy for which heought there and then to fling himself in gratitude on the ground, eventhough the snow drifted over him forever and made that act his last. Then the tears that tenderer moments could not bring stood in hisenraptured eyes. Those breathless instants were as the mirror of whatseemed to be fifty years of fear and hope. 

Ralph determined that no power on earth should remove his hand fromthe bridle until his father had at length been buried. The parish ofAskham must have its church and churchyard, and Angus Ray should beburied there. They had not yet passed by the church--it must be stillin front of them--and with the horse and its burden by their side thefriends walked on. 

When Ralph found voice to speak, he said, "Wednesday--then it is threeweeks to-day since we lost her, and for three weeks my father haswaited sepulture!"

Presently they came within sight of a rude chapel that stood at themeeting of two roads. A finger-post was at the angle, with armspointing in three directions. The chapel was a low whitewashed Gothicbuilding, with a little belfry in which there hung no bell. At itsrear was a house with broken gablets and round dormers stuck deep intothe thatch. A burial ground lay in front of both edifices, and lookeddreary and chilling now, with the snow covering its many mounds anddripping from the warm wood of its rude old crosses. 

"This will be the minister's house, " said Ralph. 

They drew up in front and knocked at the door of a deep porch. An oldman opened it and looked closely at his visitors through sharp, watchful eyes. He wore a close jerkin of thick blue homespun, and hisbroad-topped boots were strapped round his short pantaloons. 

"Does the priest live here?" said Ralph, from the road, where he heldthe mare's head. 

"No priest lives here, " said the old man, somewhat curtly. 

"Does the minister?"

"No, nor a minister. "

The changes of ecclesiastical administration had been so frequent oflate that it was impossible to say what formula was now in theascendent. Ralph understood the old man's laconic answers to imply aremonstrance, and he tried again. 

"Do you preach in this church?"

"_I_ preach? No; I practise. "

It transpired after much wordy fencing, which was at least asirritating as amusing to a man in Ralph's present temper, that therewas no minister now in possession of the benefice, and that the churchhad for some months been closed, the spiritual welfare of theparishioners being consequently in a state of temporary suspension. The old man who replied to Ralph's interrogations proved to be theparish clerk, and whether his duties were also suspended--whether theparishioners did not die, and did not require to be buried--during theperiod in which the parish was deprived of a parson, was a question ofmore consequence to Ralph than the cause of the religious bankruptcywhich the old man described. 

Ralph explained in a few words the occasion of his visit, and beggedthe clerk to dig a grave at once. 

"I fear it will scarce conform to the articles, " the clerk said with agrave shake of his old head; "I'm sore afraid I'll suffer a penalty ifit's known. "

Ralph passed some coins into the old man's hand with as littleostentation as possible; whereupon the clerk, much mollified, continued, --

"But it's not for me to deny to any Christian a Christian burial--thatis to say, as much of it as stands in no need of the book. Sir, I'llbe with you in a crack. Go round, sir, to the gate. "

Ralph and his companion did as they were bidden, and in a few minutesthe old clerk came hurrying towards them from a door at the back ofhis house that looked into the churchyard. 

He had a spade over his shoulder and a great key in his hand. 

Putting the key into a huge padlock, he turned back its rusty bolt, and the gate swung stiff on its hinges, which were thick with moss. 

Then Ralph, still holding the mare's head, walked into the churchyardwith Sim behind him. 

"Here's a spot which has never been used, " said the old man, pointingto a patch close at hand where long stalks of yarrow crept up throughthe snow. "It's fresh mould, sir, and on the bright days the sunshines on it. "

"Let it be here, " said Ralph. 

The clerk immediately cleared away the snow, marked out his groundwith the edge of the spade, and began his work. 

Ralph and Sim, with Betsy, stood a pace or two apart. It was stillearly morning, and none came near the little company gathered there. 

Now and again the old man paused in his work to catch his breath or towipe the perspiration from his brow. His communicativeness at suchmoments of intermission would have been almost equal to his reticenceat an earlier stage, but Ralph was in no humor to encourage hisgarrulity, and Sim stood speechless, with something like terror in hiseyes. "Yes, we've had no minister since Michaelmas; that, you know, was when the new Act came In, " said the clerk. 

"What Act?" Ralph asked. 

"Why, sir, you never mean that you don't know about the Act ofUniformity?"

"That's what I do mean, my friend, " said Ralph. 

"Don't know the Act of Uniformity! Have you heard of the Five MileBill?"

"No. "

"Nor the Test Bill that the Bishop wants to get afoot?"

"No. "

"Deary me, deary me, " said the clerk, with undisguised horror atRalph's ignorance of the projected ecclesiastical enactments of hisKing and country. Then, with a twinkle in the corner of his upward eyeas he held his head aside, the old man said, --

"Perhaps your honor has been away in foreign parts?"

Ralph had to decline this respectable cover for his want offamiliarity with matters which were obviously vital concerns, andperhaps the subjects of daily conversation, with his interlocutor. 

The clerk had resumed his labors. When he paused again it was in orderto enlighten Ralph's ignorance on these solemn topics. 

"You see, sir, the old 'piscopacy is back again, and the JohnPresbyters that joined it are snug in their churches, but thePresbyters that would not join it are turned out of their livings. There--that's the Act of Uniformity. "

"The Act of Non-Conformity, I should say, " replied Ralph. 

"Well, the Jack Presbyters are not to be allowed within five miles ofa market town--that's the new Five Mile Bill. And they are not to bemade schoolmasters or tutors, or to hold public offices, unless theytake the sacrament of the Church--and that's what the Bishop calls hisTest Act; but he'll scarce get it this many a long year, say I--no, not he. "

The clerk had offered his lucid exposition with the air of one whocould afford to be modestly sensible of the superiority of hisknowledge. 

"And when he does get it he'll want an Act more, so far as I can see, "said Ralph, "and that's a Burial Act--an Act to bury the Presbytersalive. They'd be full as well buried, I think. ". 

A shrewd glance from the old man's quick eyes showed that at thatmoment he had arrived at one of three conclusions--that Ralph himselfwas a Presbyter or a Roundhead, or both. 

"Our minister was a Presbyter, " he observed aloud, "and when the Actcame in he left his benefice. "

But Ralph was not minded to pursue the subject. 

The grave was now ready; it had required to be long and wide, but notdeep. 

The snow was beginning to fall again. 

"Hard work on a morning like this, " said the clerk, coughing as hethrew aside his spade. "This is the sort of early morning that makesan old man like me catch his breath. And I haven't always been parishclerk and dug graves. I was schoolmaster till Michaelmas. "

It was time to commit to the grave the burden which had passed threelong weeks on the back of the mare. Not until this moment did Ralph'shand once relax its firm grip of Betsy's bridle. Loosing it now, heapplied himself to the straps and ropes that bound the coffin. Whenall was made clear, he prepared to lift the body to the ground. It waslarge and heavy, and required the hands of Sim and the clerk as well. 

By their united efforts the coffin was raised off the horse's back andlowered. The three men were in the act of doing this, when Betsy, suddenly freed from the burden which she had carried, pranced aside, looked startled, plunged through the gate, and made off down the road. 

"Let her go, " said Ralph, and turned his attention once more to whatnow lay on the ground. 

Then Angus Ray was lowered into his last home, and the flakes of snowfell over him like a white and silent pall. 

Ralph stood aside while the old man threw back the earth. It fell fromthe spade in hollow thuds. 

Sim crouched beside a stone, and looked on with frightened eyes. 

The sods were replaced; there was a mound the more in the littlechurchyard of Askham, and that was the end. The clerk shouldered hisspade and prepared to lock the gate. 

It was then they were aware that there came from over their heads asound like the murmuring of a brook under the leaves of June; like thebreaking of deep waters at a weir; like the rolling of foam-cappedwavelets against an echoing rock. Look up! Every leafless bough ofyonder lofty elder-tree is thick with birds. Listen! A moment, andtheir song has ceased; they have risen on the wing; they are gone likea cloud Of black rain through the white feathery air. Then silenceeverywhere. 

Was it God's sign and symbol--God's message to the soul of thisstricken man? God's truce?

Who shall say it was not!

"A load is lifted off my heart, " said Ralph. He was thinking of theterrible night he had spent on the fells. And indeed there was thelight of another look in his face. His father had sepulture. God hadshown him this mercy as a sign that what he purposed to do ought to bedone. Such was Ralph's reading of the accidental finding of the horse. 

They bade good morning to the old man and left him. Then they walkedto the angle of the roads where the guidepost stood. The arms werecovered with the snow, and Ralph climbed on to the stone wall behindand brushed their letters clear. 

"To Kendal. " That pointed in the direction from whence they came. 

"To Gaskarth. "

"That's our road, " said Sim. 

"No, " said Ralph; "_this_ is it--'To Penrith and Carlisle. '"

What chance remained now to Robbie?

CHAPTER XXXIV. FATE THAT IMPEDES, FALL BACK. 

A few minutes after the coach arrived at Mardale, Robbie was toilingalong in the darkness over an unfamiliar road. That tiresome oldheadache was coming back to him, and he lifted a handful of snow nowand again to cool his aching forehead. 

It was a weary, weary tramp, such as only young, strong limbs, and astout heart could have sustained. Villages were passed, but they layas quiet as the people that slumbered in them. Five hours had gone bybefore Robbie encountered a living soul. 

As daylight dawned the snow ceased to fall, and when Robbie hadreached Askham the late sun had risen. He was now beginning to feelthe need of food, and stepping into a cottage he asked an olddaleswoman who lived there if he might trouble her in the way of tradeto make him some breakfast. The good soul took compassion on the youngman's weary face, and said he was welcome to such as she had. WhenRobbie had eaten a bowl of porridge and milk, the fatigue of hisjourney quite overcame him. Even while answering his humble hostess'squestions in broken sentences he fell asleep in his chair. Out of pitythe old woman allowed him to sleep on. "The lad's fair done out, " shesaid, glancing at his haggard face. It was later than noon when heawoke. 

Alas! what then was lost forever! What was gone beyond recall!

Starting up in annoyance at the waste of time, he set off afresh, and, calling at the inn as he passed by, he learned to his great vexationthat if he had come on there when, at sunrise, he went into thecottage a hundred yards away, he must have been within easy reach ofSim and Ralph. The coach, nevertheless, had not yet got to this stage, and that fact partially reconciled Robbie to the delay. 

He had little doubt which path to take when he reached the angle ofthe roads at the corner of the churchyard. If Ralph had taken the roadleading to Gaskarth he might be safe, but if he had taken the roadleading to Carlisle he must be in danger. Therefore Robbie determinedto follow the latter. 

He made no further inquiries until he had walked through the markettown of Penrith, and had come out on the turnpike to the north of it. Then he asked the passers-by who seemed to come some distance if theyhad encountered two such men as he was in search of. In this way helearned many particulars of the toilsome journey that was being madeby his friends. Sim's strength had failed him, and Ralph had wished toleave him at a lodging on the road while he himself pushed forward toCarlisle. But Sim had prayed to be taken on, and eventually acountryman going to the Carlisle market, and with space for one onlyon his cart, had offered to give Sim a lift. Of this tender thefriends had thankfully availed themselves. 

It was only too clear from every detail which Robbie gleaned thatRalph was straining every muscle to reach Carlisle. What terribledestiny could it be that was thus compelling him to fly, perhaps tohis death!

Mile after mile Robbie plodded along the weary road. He was ill, though he had scarcely realized that fact. He took many a rest. 

Daylight faded, and once more the night came on, but still the braveyoung dalesman held to his purpose. The snow had become crisp andeasier to the foot, but the way was long and the wayfarer was sick atheart. 

Morning came at last, and when the mists had risen above the meadows, Robbie saw before him, nigh at hand, the ancient city of Carlisle. Apresentiment that he came too late took the joy out of thelong-expected sight. 

Was the sky gloomy? Did a storm threaten? Were the murmuring riversand the roaring ghylls telling to Robbie's ear the hopeless tale thatlay cold and silent at his heart? No!

The sun arose and sparkled over the white landscape. It thawed thestiff boughs of the trees, and the snow dropped from them in graciousdrops like dew. All nature seemed glad--cruelly, mockingly, insensately glad--lightsome, jubilant. The birds forsook theirfrost-bound nests, and sang cheerily in the clear morning air. Onelittle linnet--so very little--perched on a delicate silver birch, andpoured its full soul out of its liquid throat. 

Robbie toiled painfully along with a feeble step, and with nervelessdespondency on every feature of his face--his coat flying open to hiswoollen shirt; one of his hands thrust with his pipe into his belt;the other hand dragging after him a heavy staff; his cap pushed backfrom his hot forehead. 

When he walked listlessly into Carlisle it was through theBotcher-gate on the south. The clock of the cathedral was strikingten. Robbie passed along the streets scarcely knowing his own errandor destination. Without seeking for it he came upon the old Town Hall. Numbers of people were congregated in the Market Place outside, andcrowds were hurrying up from the adjacent streets. Robbie had onlyonce been in Carlisle before, but he felt convinced that these must beunaccustomed occurrences. He asked a townsman standing near him whatthe tumult meant. The man could tell him nothing. Then he askedanother and another spectator of the scene in which there appeared tobe nothing to see, but all seemed as ignorant as himself. Neverthelessthere was an increasing commotion. 

An old stone cross, raised high on steps, stood in the Market Place, and Robbie walked up to it and leaned against it. Then he wasconscious that word had gone through the crowd that a famous culprithad surrendered. According to some authorities the culprit was athief, according to others a murderer; some said that he was a forger, and some said a traitor, and some that he was another of theregicides, and would be sent on to London. 

On one point only was there any kind of agreement, and that was thatthe culprit had voluntarily surrendered to a warrant issued for hisarrest. 

The commotion reached its climax when the doors of the old hall wereseen to open and a company of soldiers and civilians passed out. 

It was a guard for the prisoner, who was being taken to the commongaol to await his trial. 

A dull, aching, oppressive pain lay at Robbie's heart. He climbed onto the cross and looked over the people's heads at the little company. 

The prisoner was Ralph Ray. With a firm step, with upright andsteadfast gaze, he walked between two soldiers; and close at hisheels, with downcast eyes, Simeon Stagg toiled along. 

Robbie's quest was at an end. 

CHAPTER XXXV. ROBBIE'S QUEST ENDED. 

It was all over now. The weary chase was done, and Robbie Andersoncame late. Ralph had surrendered, and a sadder possibility than Robbieguessed at, a more terrible catastrophe than Rotha Stagg or Willy Rayhad feared or looked for, lay in the sequel now to be unfolded. 

The soldiers and their prisoner had gone; the crowd had gone withthem, and Robbie stood alone in the Market Place. From his station onthe steps of the cross he turned and looked after the motley company. They took the way down English Street. 

How hot and tired his forehead felt! It had ached before, but now itburned like fire. Robbie pressed it hard against the cold stone of thecross. Then he walked aimlessly away. He had nowhere to go; he hadnothing to do; and hour after hour he rambled through the narrowstreets of the old town. The snow still hung in heavy flakes from theoverhanging eaves and porches of the houses, and toppled at intervalsin thick clots on to the streets. The causeways were swept dry. 

Up and down, through Blackfriars Street, past the gaol that stood onthe ruins of the monastery, along Abbey Street, and past thecathedral, across Head Lane, and into the Market Place again; thenalong the banks of the Caldew, and over the western wall that lookedacross the hills that stretched into the south; round Shaddon-gate tothe bridge that lay under the shadow of the castle, and up to theriver Eden and the wide Scotch-gate to the north. On and on, he knewnot where, he cared not wherefore; on and on, till his weary limbswere sinking beneath him, until the long lines of houses, with theirwhitened timbers standing out from their walls, and their pedimentsand the windows that were dormered into their roofs seemed to reelabout him and dance in fantastic figures before his eyes. 

The incident of that morning had created an impression among thetownspeople. There was a curious absence of unanimity as to the crimewith which the prisoner would stand charged; but Robbie noticed thateverybody agreed that it was something terrible, and that nobodyseemed to suffer much in good humor by reason of the fate that hungover a fellow-creature. "Very shocking, very. Come, John, let's have aglass together!"

Robbie had turned into a byway that bore the name of King's Arms Lane. He paused without purpose or thought before a narrow recess in which aquaint old house stood back from the street. With its low flat windowsdeeply recessed into the stone, its curious heads carved long ago intobosses that were now ruined by frost and rain, it might have been awing of the old abbey that had wandered somehow away. A little man, far in years, pottered about in front, brushing the snow and cleaningthe windows. 

"Yon man is just in time for the 'sizes, " said a young fellow as heswung by with another, who was pointing to the house and mutteringsomething that was inaudible to Robbie. 

"What place is this?" said Robbie, when they had gone, stepping up tothe gate and addressing the old man within. 

"The judges' lodgings surely, " replied the caretaker, lifting his eyesfrom his shovel with a look of surprise at the question. 

"And the 'sizes, when are they on?"

"Next week; that's when they begin. "

The ancient custodian was evidently not of a communicativetemperament, and Robbie, who was in no humor for gossip, turned away. 

It was of little use to remain longer. All was over. The worst hadcome to the worst. He might as well turn towards home. But how hot hisforehead felt! Could it have been that ducking his head in the riverat Wythburn had caused it to burn like a furnace?

Robbie thought of Sim. Why had he not met him in his long ramblethrough the town? They might have gone home together. 

At the corner of Botcher-gate and English Street there stood twoshops, and as Robbie passed them the shopkeepers were engaged in ananimated conversation on the event of the morning. "I saw him go bywith the little daft man; yes, I did. I was just taking down myshutters, as it might be so, " said one of the two men, imitating thepiece of industry in question. 

"Deary me! What o'clock might that be?" asked the other. 

"Well, as I say, I was just taking down my shutters, as it might beso, " imitating the gesture again. "I'd not sanded my floor, nor yetswept out my shop; so it might have been eight, and it might have beenshort of eight, and maybe it was somewhere between the three quartersand the hour--that's as _I_ reckon it. "

"Deary me! deary me!" responded the other shopkeeper, whose blood wasobviously curdling at the bare recital of these harrowing details. 

Robbie walked on. Eight o'clock! Then he had been but two hourslate--two poor little hours!

Robbie reflected with vexation and bitterness on the many hours whichmust have been wasted or ill spent since he left Wythburn on Sunday. He begrudged the time that he had given to rest and sleep. 

Well, well, it was all over now; and out of Carlisle, through theBotcher-gate, and down the road up which he came, Robbie turned withweary feet. The snow was thawing fast, and the meadows on every sidelay green in the sunshine. How full of grace they were! How cruel inher very gladness Nature still seemed to be!

Never for an instant did Robbie lose the sense of a great calamityhanging above him, but a sort of stupefaction was creeping over himnevertheless. He busied himself with reflections on every minorfeature of the road. Had he marked this beech before, or that oak? Hadhe seen this gate on his way into Carlisle, or passed through thatbar? A boy on the road was driving a herd of sheep before him. Onedrift of the sheep was marked with a red cross, and the other driftwith a black patch. Robbie counted the two drifts of sheep one by one, and wondered whose they were and where they were going. 

Then he sat down to rest, and let his forehead drop on to the grass tocool it. When he rose again the road seemed to swim around him. A farmservant in a smock was leading two horses, and as he passed he badethe wayfarer, "Good afternoon. " Robbie went on without seeming tohear, but when the man had got beyond the sound of his voice he turnedas if by sudden impulse, and, waving his hand with a gesture ofcordiality, he returned the salutation. 

Then he sat down once more and held his head between his hands. It wasbeating furiously, and his body, too, from head to foot, was changingrapidly from hot to cold. At length the consciousness took possessionof him that he was ill. "I doubt I'm badly, " he thought, and tried torealize his position. Presently he attempted to rise and call back thecountryman with the horses. Lifting himself on one trembling knee, hewaved a feeble arm spasmodically in the air, and called and calledagain. The voice startled him; it seemed not to be his own. Hisstrength was spent. He sank back and remembered no more. 

The man in the smock was gone, but another countryman was coming downthe road at that moment from the direction of Carlisle. This was noother than little blink-eyed Reuben Thwaite. He was sitting muffled upin his farm wagon and singing merry snatches to keep the cold out ofhis lungs. Reuben had been at Carlisle over night with sundry hanks ofthread, which he had sold to the linen weavers. He had found a goodmarket by coming so far, and he was returning to Wythburn in highfeckle. When he came (as he would have said) "ebbn fornenst" Robbielying at the roadside, he jumped down from his seat. "What poor lad'sthis? Why, what! What say! What!" holding himself back to grasp thesituation, "Robbie Anderson!"

Then a knowing smile overspread Reuben's wrinkled features as hestooped to pat and push the prostrate man, in an effort to arouse himto consciousness. 

"Tut, Robbie, lad; Robbie, ma lad! This wark will nivver do, Robbie!Brocken loose agen, aye! Come, Robbie, up, lad!"

Robbie lay insensible to all Reuben's appeals, whether of the natureof banter or half-serious menace. 

"Weel, weel, the lad _has_ had a fair cargo intil him this voyage, anyway. "

There was obviously no likelihood of awakening Robbie, so with a worldof difficulty, with infinite puffing and fuming and perspiring, andthe help of a passing laborer, Reuben contrived to get the youngfellow lifted bodily into his cart. Lying there at full length, anumber of the empty thread sacks were thrown over the insensible man, and then Reuben mounted to his seat and drove off. 

"Poor old Martha Anderson!" muttered Reuben to himself. "It's weelshe's gone, poor body! It wad nigh have brocken her heart--and it's mybelief 'at it did. "

They had not gone far before Reuben himself, with the inconsistency ofmore pretentious moralists, felt an impulse to indulge in that benignbeverage of which he had just deplored the effects. Drawing up withthis object at a public house that stood on the road, he called for aglass of hot spirits. He was in the act of taking it from the hands ofthe landlord, when a stage-coach drove up, and the coachman and two ofthe outside passengers ordered glasses of brandy. 

"From Carlisle, eh?" said one of the latter, eyeing Reuben from wherehe sat and speaking with an accent which the little dalesman knew tobe "foreign to these parts. "

Reuben assented with a satisfied nod and a screwing up of one cheekinto a wrinkle about the eyes. He was thinking of the good luck of hisvisit. 

"What's the news there?" asked the other passenger, with an accentwhich the little dalesman was equally certain was not foreign to theseparts. 

"Threed's up a gay penny!" said Reuben. 

"Any news at the Castle the day?"

"The Castle? No--that's to say, yes. I did hear 'at a man had givenhissel' up, but I know nowt aboot it. "

"Do you know his name?"

"No. "

"Be quick in front, my gude man; let's be off; we've lost time enoughwith the snow already. "

The coachman had mounted to his box, and was wrapping a sheepskinabout his knees. 

"What's that you have there?" he said to Reuben. 

"Him? Why, that's Robbie Anderson, poor fellow. One o' them lads, thooknows, that have no mair nor one enemy in all the world, and that'stheirselves. "

"Out for a spoag, eh?"

"Come, get along, man, and let's have no more botherment, " cried oneof the impatient passengers. 

Two or three miles farther down the road Reuben was holding in hishorse, in order to cross a river, when he thought that, in thecomparative silence of his springless wagon, he heard Robbie speakingbehind him. 

"It's donky weather, this, " Robbie was saying. 

"Ey, wet and sladderish, " said Reuben, in an insinuating tone, "baithinside and out, baith under foot and ower head. "

"It was north of the bridge, " Robbie whispered. 

"What were--Carlisle?" asked Reuben in his most facetious vein. 

"It blows a bit on the Stye Head to-day, Ralph. The way's ower narrow. I can never chain the young horse. Steady, Betsy; steady, lass;steady--"

"Why, the lad's ram'lin', " said Reuben to himself. 

"It was fifty strides north of the bridge, " Robbie whispered again;and then lifting his voice he cried, "She's gone; she's gone. "

"He's ram'lin' for sure. "

The truth now dawned on Reuben that on the present occasion at leastRobbie was not drunk, but sick. With the illogical perversity of somehealthy people, he thought to rally the ailing man out of his ailment, whatever it might be; so he expended all the facetiousness of which hewas master on Robbie's unconscious figure. 

Reuben's well-meant efforts were of no avail. Robbie alternatelywhispered, "It was north of the bridge, " and chuckled, "Ah, ah!there's Garth, Garth--but I downed him, the dummel head!"

The little dalesman relinquished as hopeless all further attempt atrational converse, and gave himself the solemn assurance, conveyed tohis acute intelligence by many grave shakes of the head, that "summat_was_ ailin' the lad, after all. "

Then they drove for hours in silence. It was dark when they passedthrough Threlkeld, and turned into the Vale of Wanthwaite on theirnear approach to Wythburn. 

"I scarce know rightly where Robbie bides, now old Martha's dead, "thought Reuben; "I'll just slip up the lonnin to Shoulth'et and ask. "

CHAPTER XXXVI. ROTHA'S CONFESSION. 

 And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. Coleridge. 

When Reuben Thwaite formed this resolution he was less than a milefrom Shoulthwaite. In the house on the Moss, Rotha was then sittingalone, save for the silent presence of the unconscious Mrs. Ray. Theday's work was done. It had been market day, and Willy Ray had notreturned from Gaskarth. The old house was quiet within, and not abreath of wind was stirring without. There was no sound except thecrackling of the dry boughs on the fire and the hollow drip of themelting snow. 

By the chair from which Mrs. Ray gazed vacantly and steadily Rotha satwith a book in her hand. She tried to read, but the words lost theirmeaning. Involuntarily her eyes wandered from the open page. At lengththe old volume, with its leathern covers clasped together with theirgreat brass clasp, dropped quietly into the girl's lap. 

At that moment there was a sound of footsteps in the courtyard. Getting up with an anxious face, Rotha walked to the window and drewthe blind partly aside. 

It was Matthew Branthwaite. 

"How fend ye, lass?" he said on opening the door; "rubbin' on allreet? The roads are varra drewvy after the snow, " he added, stampingthe clods from his boots. Then looking about, "Hesn't our Liza beenhere to-neet?"

"Not yet, " Rotha answered. 

"Whearaway is t' lass? I thought she was for slipping off toShoulth'et. But then she's olas gitten her best bib and tucker onnowadays. "

"She'll be here soon, no doubt, " said Rotha, giving Matthew hisaccustomed chair facing Mrs. Ray. 

"She's a rare brattlecan to chatter is our Liza. I telt her she wasower keen to come away with all the ins and oots aboot the constablescoming to Wy'bern yesterday. She had it pat, same as if she'd seen itin prent. That were bad news, and the laal hizzy ran bull-neck to gi'eit oot. "

"She meant no harm, Matthew. "

"But why duddent she mean some good and run bull-neck to-neet to bringye the bettermer news?"

"Better news, Matthew? What is it?" asked Rotha eagerly, but with moreapprehension than pleasure in her tone. 

"Why, that the constables hev gone, " said Matthew. 

"Gone!"

"Gone! Another of the same sort came to-day to leet them, and awaythey've gone together. "

Matthew clearly expected an outburst of delight at his intelligence. "What dusta say to that, lass?" he added between the puffs of a pipethat he was lighting from a candle. Then, raising his eyes and lookingup at Rotha, he said, "Why, what's this? What ails thee? Ey! What'swrang?"

"Gone, you say?" said Rotha. "I fear that is the worst news of all, Matthew. "

But now there was the rattle of a wagon on the lonnin. A moment laterthe door was thrown open, and Liza Branthwaite stood in the porch withReuben Thwaite behind her. 

"Here's Robbie Anderson back home in Reuben's cart, " said Liza, catching her breath. 

"Fetch him in, " said Matthew. "Is he grown shy o' t'yance?"

"That's mair nor my share, Mattha, " said Reuben. "The lad's dylt out--fair beat, I tell thee; I picked him up frae thebrae side. "

"He can scarce move hand or foot, " cried Liza. "Come, quick!"

Rotha was out at the wagon in a moment. 

"He's ill: he's unconscious, " she said. "Where did you find him?"

"A couple of mile or so outside Carlisle, " answered Reuben. 

Rotha staggered, and must have fallen but for Matthew, who at themoment came up behind her. 

"I'll tell thee what it is, lass, " said the old man, "thoo'rt like tobe bad thysel', and varra bad, too. Go thy ways back to the fire. "

"Summat ails Robbie, no doubt about it, " said Reuben. 

"Of course summat _ails_ him, " said Mattha, with an insinuatingemphasis on the word. "He nivver were an artistic drunkard, weren'tBobbie. "

"He's been ram'lin' and ram'lin' all the way home, " continued Reuben. "He's telt ower and ower agen of summat 'at were fifty yards north ofthe bridge. "

"We must take him home, " said Liza, who came hurrying from the housewith a blanket over her arm. "Here, cover him with this, Rotha canspare it. "

In a minute more Robbie's insensible form was wrapped round and round. 

"Give him room to breathe, " said Mattha; "I declare ye're playing atpund-o'-mair-weight with the lad!" he added as Rotha came up with asheepskin and a shawl. 

"The night is cold, and he has all but three miles to ride yet!" saidthe girl. 

"He lodges with 'Becca Rudd; let's be off, " said Liza, clambering intothe cart by the step at the shaft. "Come up, father; quick!"

"What, Bobbie, Bobbie, but this is bad wark, bad wark, " said Mattha, when seated in the wagon. "Hod thy tail in the watter, lad, andthere's hope for thee yit. "

With this figurative expression Mattha settled himself for the drive. Rotha turned to Reuben Thwaite. 

"At Carlisle, did you hear anything--meet anybody?" she asked. 

"Baith, " said Reuben, with a twinkle which was lost in the darkness. 

"I mean from Wythburn. Did you meet anybody from--did you see Ralph ormy father?"

"Nowther. "

"Nor hear of them?"

"No--wait--deary me, deary me, now 'at I mind it--I nivver thought ofit afore--I heeard 'at a man had been had up at the Toon Hall andtaken to the gaol. It cannot be 'at the man were--no, no--I'm ram'lin'mysel sure-ly. "

"Ralph; it was Ralph!" said Rotha, trembling visibly. "Be quick. Goodnight!" "Ralph at Carlisle!" said Mattha. "Weel, weel; after wordcomes weird. That's why the constables are gone, and that's whyRobbie's come. Weel, weel! Up with thee, Reuben, and let us try thelegs of this auld dobbin of thine. "

How Rotha got back into the house that night she never knew. She couldnot remember to have heard the rattle of the springless cart as it wasbeing driven off. All was for the moment a blank waste. 

When she recovered consciousness she was sitting by the side of Mrs. Ray, with her arms about the neck of the invalid and her head on theunconscious breast. The soulless eyes looked with a meaningless stareat the girl's troubled face. 

The agony of suspense was over, and the worst had happened. What nowremained to her to say to Willy? He knew nothing of what she had done. Sim's absence had been too familiar an occurrence to excite suspicion, and Robbie Anderson had not been missed. What should she say?

This was the night of Thursday. During the long hours of the wearydays since Sunday, Rotha had conjured up again and again a sceneoverflowing with delight, in which she should tell Willy everything. This was to be when her father or Robbie or both returned, and thecrown of her success was upon her. But what now was the word to say?

The noise of wheels approaching startled the girl out of her troubleddream. Willy was coming home. In another minute he was in the house. 

"Rotha, Rotha, " he cried excitedly, "I've great news, great news. "

"What news?" asked Rotha, not daring to look up. 

"Great news, " repeated Willy. 

Lifting her eyes furtively to his face, Rotha saw that, like hisvoice, it was brimming over with delight. 

"The bloodhounds are gone, " he said, and, throwing off his cloak andleggings, he embraced the girl and kissed her and laughed the laugh ofa happy man. Then he hurried out to see to his horse. 

What was Rotha to do? What was she to say? This mistake of Willy'smade her position not less than terrible. How was she to tell him thathis joyousness was misplaced? If he had come to her with a sad faceshe might then have told him all--yes, all the cruel truth! If he hadcome to her with reproaches on his tongue, how easily she might haveunburdened her heavy heart! But this laughter and these kisses workedlike madness in her brain. 

The minutes flew like thought, and Willy was back in the house. 

"I thought they dare not do it. You'll remember I told them so. Ah!ah! they find I was in the right. "

Willy was too much excited with his own reading of this latestincident to sit in one seat for two minutes together. He walked up anddown the room, laughing sometimes, and sometimes pausing to pat hismother's head. 

It was fortunate for Rotha that she had to busy herself with thepreparations for Willy's supper, and that this duty rendered lessurgent the necessity for immediate response to his remarks. Willy, onhis part, was in no mood at present to indulge in niceties ofobservation, and Rotha's perturbation passed for some time unnoticed. 

"Ralph will be back with us soon, let us hope, " he said. "There's nodoubt but we do miss him, do we not?"

"Yes, " Rotha answered, leaning as much as possible over the fire thatshe was mending. 

The tone of the reply made an impression on Willy. In a moment more heappeared to realize that there, had throughout been something unusualin the girl's demeanor. 

"Not well, Rotha?" he asked in a subdued tone. It had flashed acrosshis mind that perhaps her father was once more in some way the causeof her trouble. 

"Oh, very well!" she answered, throwing up her head with a littletouch of forced gayety. 

"Why, there are tears in your eyes, girl. No? Oh, but there are!" Theyare tears of joy, he thought. She loves Ralph as a brother. "_I_ laughwhen I'm happy, Rotha; it seems that _you_ cry. "

"Do I?" she answered, and wondered if the merciful Father above wouldever, ever, ever let this bitter hour pass by. 

"No, it's worry, Rotha, that's it; you're not well, that's the truth. "

Willy would have been satisfied to let the explanation resolve itselfinto this, but Rotha broke silence, saying, "What if it were _not_good news--"

The words were choking her, and she stopped. 

"Not good news--what news?" asked Willy, half muttering the girl'swords in a bewildered way. 

"The news that the constables have gone. "

"Gone! What is it? What do you mean, Rotha?"

"What if the constables have gone, " said the girl, struggling with heremotion, "only because--what if they have gone--because--because Ralphis taken. "

"Taken! Where? What are you thinking of?"

"And what if Ralph is to be charged, not with treason--no, butwith--with murder? Oh, Willy!" the girl cried in her distress, throwing away all disguise, "it is true, true; it is true. "

Willy sat down stupefied. With a wild and rigid look, he stared atRotha as they sat face to face, eye to eye. He said nothing. A senseof horror mastered him. 

"And this is not all, " continued Rotha, the tears rolling down hercheeks. "What would you say of the person who did it--of the personwho put Ralph in the way of this--this death?" cried the girl, nowburying her face in her hands. 

Willy's lips were livid. They moved as if in speech, but the wordswould not come. 

"What would I say?" he said at length, bitterly and scornfully, as herose from his seat with rigid limbs. "I would say--" He stopped; histeeth were clinched. He drew one hand impatiently across his face. Theidea that Simeon Stagg must have been the informer had at that momentgot possession of his mind. "Never ask me what I would _say_, " hecried. 

"Willy, dear Willy, " sobbed Rotha, throwing her arms about him, "thatperson--"

The sobs were stifling her, but she would not spare herself. 

"That person was MYSELF!"

"You!" cried Willy, breaking from her embrace. "And the murder?" heasked hoarsely, "whose murder?"

"James Wilson's. "

"Let me go--let me go, I say. "

"Another word. " Rotha stepped into the doorway. Willy threw herhastily aside and hurried out. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. WHICH INDICTMENT?

Under the rude old Town Hall at Carlisle there was a shop which waskept by a dealer in second-hand books. The floor within was paved, andthe place was lighted at night by two lamps, which swung from thebeams of the ceilings. At one end a line of shelves served to separatefrom the more public part of the shop a little closet of a room, having a fire, and containing in the way of furniture a table, two orthree chairs, and a stuffed settle. 

In this closet, within a week of the events just narrated, a man ofsinister aspect, whom we have met more than once already in otherscenes, sat before a fire. 

"Not come down yet, Pengelly?" said, this man to the bookseller, atottering creature in a long gown and velvet skull cap. 

"Not yet. "

"Will he ever come? It's all a fool's errand, too, I'll swear it is. "

Then twisting his shoulders as though shivering, he added, --

"Bitter cold, this shop of yours. "

"Warmer than Doomsdale, eh?" replied the bookseller with a grin as hebusied himself dusting his shelves. 

The other chuckled. He took a stick that lay on the hearth and brokethe fire into a sharp blaze. The exercise was an agreeable one. It wasaccompanied by agreeable reflections, too. 

"I hear a foot on the stair. " A man entered the shop. 

"No use, none, " said the new-comer. "It's wasted labor talking toMaster Wilfrey. "

The tone was one of vexation. 

"Did ye tell him what I heard about Justice Hide and his carryings onat Newcastle?"

"Ey, and I told 'im he'd never bring it off with Hide on the bench. "

"And what did the chiel say to it?"

"'Tut, ' he said, says he, 'Millet is wi' 'im on the circuit, and he'llsee the law's safe on treason. '"

"So he will not touch the other indictment?"

"'It's no use, ' says he, 'the man's sure to fall for treason, ' hesays, 'and it's all botherment trying to force me to indict 'im formurder. '"

"Force him! Ha! ha! that's good, that is; force him, eh?"

The speaker renewed his attentions to the fire. 

"He'll be beaten, " he added, --"he'll be beaten, will Master Wilfrey. With Hide oh the bench there'll be no conviction for treason. And thenthe capital charge will go to the wall, and Ray will get away scotfree. "

"It baffles me yet aboot Ray, his giving himself up. "

"Shaf, man! Will ye never see through the trick? It was to stand fortreason and claim the pardon, or be fined, or take a year inDoomsdale, and escape the gallows. He's a cunning taistrel. He'll doaught to save his life. "

"You're wrong there; I cannot but say you're wrong there. I know theman, and as I've told you there's nothing in the world he dare not do. Why, would you credit it, I saw 'im one day--"

"Tut, haud yer tongue. Ye'd see him tremble one day if this sheriff ofyours were not flayt by his own shadow. Ye'd see him on Haribee; aye, and maybe ye _will_ see him there yet, sheriff or no sheriff. "

This was said with a bitterness indicative of fierce and deadlyhatred. 

Shifting uneasily under the close gaze of his companion, the othersaid, --

"What for do you look at me like that? I've no occasion to love him, have I?"

"Nor I, nor I, " said the first speaker, his face distorted with evilpassions; "and you shall spit on his grave yet, Master Scroope, thatyou shall; and dance on it till it does yer soul good; you shall, youshall, sheriff or none. "

Just then a flourish of trumpets fell on the ear. Conversation wasinterrupted while the men, with the bookseller, stepped to the door. Numbers of townspeople were crowding into the Market Place. Immediately afterwards there came at a swift pace through ScotchStreet a gayly bedecked carriage, with outriders in gold lace and atrumpeter riding in front. 

"The judges--going through to King's Arms Lane, " observed thebookseller. 

"What o'clock do the 'sizes start, Mr. Pengelly?" asked a loitereroutside. 

"Ten in the morning, that's when the grand jury sit, " the bookselleranswered. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. PEINE FORTE ET DURE. 

The court was densely packed at ten next morning. Every yard ofavailable space was thronged with people. The crown court lay on thewest of the Town Hall. It was a large square chamber withoutgalleries. Rude oak, hewn with the axe straight from the tree, formedthe rafters and principals of the roofs. The windows were small, andcast a feeble light. A long table like a block of granite, coveredwith a faded green cloth and having huge carved legs, stood at one endof the court, and stretched almost from side to side. On a dais overthis table sat the two judges in high-backed chairs, deeply carved andblack. There was a stout rail at one end of the table, and behind itwere steps leading to a chamber below. This was the bar, and anofficer of the court stood at one side of it. Exactly opposite it werethree rows of seats on graduated levels. This was the jury box. Rangedin front of the table were the counsel for the King, the clerk of thecourt, and two or three lawyers. An ancient oak chest, ribbed withiron and secured by several massive padlocks, stood on the table. 

The day was cold. A close mist that had come from the mountainshovered over the court and crept into every crevice, chilling anddank. 

There was much preliminary business to go through, and the people whothronged the court watched it with ill-concealed impatience. Truebills were found for this offence and that: assaults, batteries, larcenies. 

Amid a general hush the crier called for Ralph Ray. 

Ralph stepped up quietly, and laid one hand on the rail in front ofhim. The hand was chained. He looked round. There was not a toucheither of pride or modesty in his steady gaze. He met without emotionthe sea of faces upturned to his own face. Near the door at the end ofthe court stood the man who had been known in Lancaster as Ralph'sshadow. Their eyes met, but there was no expression of surprise ineither face. Close at hand was the burlier ruffian who had insultedthe girl that sang in the streets. In the body of the court there wasanother familiar face. It was Willy Ray's, and on meeting hisbrother's eyes for an instant Ralph turned his own quickly away. Beneath the bar, with downcast eyes, sat Simeon Stagg. 

The clerk of the court was reading a commission authorizing the courtto hear and determine treasons, and while this formality wasproceeding Ralph was taking note of his judges. One of them was astout, rubicund person advanced in years. Ralph at once recognized himas a lawyer who had submitted to the Parliament six years before. Theother judge was a man of austere countenance, and quite unknown toRalph. It was the former of the two judges who had the principalmanagement of the case. The latter sat with a paper before his face. The document sometimes concealed his eyes and sometimes dropped belowhis mouth. 

"Gentlemen, " said the judge, beginning his charge, "you are the grandinquest for the body of this county, and you have now before you aprisoner charged with treason. Treason, gentlemen, has two aspects:there is treason of the wicked imagination, and there is treasonapparent: the former poisons the heart, the latter breaks forth inaction. "

The judge drew his robes about him, and was about to continue, whenthe paper suddenly dropped from the face of the other occupant of thebench. 

"Your pardon, brother Millet, " he interrupted, and pointed towardsRalph's arms. "When a prisoner comes to the bar his irons ought to betaken off. Have you anything to object against these irons beingstruck away?"

"Nothing, brother Hide, " replied the judge rather testily. "Keeper, knock off the prisoner's irons. "

The official appealed to looked abashed, and replied that thenecessary instruments were not at hand. 

"They are of no account, my lord, " said Ralph. 

"They must be removed. "

When the delay attending this process was over and the handcuffs fellto the ground, the paper rose once more in front of the face ofJustice Hide, and Justice Millet continued his charge. He defined thenature and crime of treason with elaboration and circumlocution. Hequoted the ancient statute wherein the people, speaking of themselves, say that they recognize no superior under God but only the King'sgrace. "I do no speak my own words, " he said, "but the words of thelaw, and I urge this the more lest any persons should draw dangerousinferences to shadow their traitorous acts. Gentlemen, the King is thevicegerent of God, and has no superior. If any man shall shroudhimself under any pretended authority, you must know that this is notan excuse, but the height of aggravation. "

Once more the judge paused, drew his robes about him, and turnedsharply to the jury to observe the effect of his words; then to hisbrother on the bench, for the light of his countenance. The paper wascovering the eyes of Justice Hide. 

"But now, gentlemen, to come from the general to the particular. It istreason to levy war against the King's person, and to levy war againstthe King's authority is treason too. It follows, therefore, that allacts which were done to the keeping of the King out of the exercise ofhis kingly office were treason. If persons assembled themselves in awarlike manner to do any of these acts, that was treason. Remember butthis, and I have done. "

A murmur of assent and approbation passed over the court when thejudge ceased to speak. Perhaps a close observer might have marked anexpression of dissatisfaction on the face of the other judge as oftenas the document held in front of it permitted the eyes and mouth to beseen. He shifted restlessly from side to side while the charge wasbeing delivered, and at the close of it he called somewhat impatientlyfor the indictment. 

The clerk was proceeding to give the names of the witnesses, whenRalph asked to be permitted to see the indictment. With a smile, theclerk handed him a copy in Latin. Ralph glanced at it, threw it backto the table, and asked for a translation. 

"Let the indictment be read aloud and in English, " said Justice Hide. 

It was then read, and purported that, together with others, Ralph Ray, not having the fear of God before his eyes, and being instigated bythe devil, had traitorously and feloniously, contrary to his dueallegiance and bounden duty, conspired against the King's authority onsundry occasions and in divers places. 

There was a strained attitude of attention while the indictment wasbeing read, and a dead stillness when the prisoner was called upon toplead. 

"How sayest thou, Ralph Ray? Art thou guilty of that treason whereofthou standest indicted and for which thou hast been arraigned, or notguilty?"

Ralph did not reply at once. He looked calmly around. Then, in a firmvoice, without a trace of emotion, he said, --

"I claim exemption under the Act of Oblivion. "

There was a murmur of inquiry. 

"That will avail you nothing, " replied the judge who had delivered thecharge. "The Act does not apply to your case. You must plead Guilty orNot Guilty. "

"Have I no right to the benefit of the Act of Oblivion?"

The clerk rose again. 

"Are you Guilty or Not Guilty?"

"Have I liberty to move exceptions to the indictment?"

"You shall have the liberty that any subject can have, " repliedJustice Millet. "You have heard the indictment read, and you mustplead, Guilty or Not Guilty. "

The paper had again gone up before the face of Justice Hide. 

"I stand at this bar, " said Ralph quietly, "charged with conspiringagainst the King's authority. The time of the alleged treason isspecified. I move this exception to the indictment, that the King ofEngland was _dead_ at the period named. "

There was some shuffling in the court. The paper had dropped below theeyes. 

"You trouble the court with these damnable excursions, " cried JusticeMillet, with no attempt to conceal his anger. "By the law of Englandthe King never dies. Your plea must be direct, --'Guilty, ' or 'NotGuilty. ' No man standing in your position at the bar must make anyother answer to the indictment. "

"Shall I be heard, my lord?"

"You shall, sir, but only on your trial. "

"I urge a point of law, and I ask for counsel, " said Ralph; "I canpay. " "You seem to be versed in proceedings of law, young man, "replied the judge, with an undisguised sneer. 

The paper dropped below the mouth. 

"Mr. Ray, " said Justice Hide, in a friendly tone, "the course is thatyou should plead. "

"I stand charged, my lord, with no crime. How, then, shall I plead?"

"Mr. Ray, " said the judge again, "I am sorry to interrupt you. I holdthat a man in your position should have every leniency shown to him. But these discourses are contrary to all proceedings of this nature. Will you plead?"

"He _must_ plead, brother; there is no _will you?_" rejoined the otheroccupant of the bench. 

The paper went up over the eyes once more. There was some laughteramong the men before the table. 

"He thinks it cheap to defy the court, " said counsel for the King. 

"Brother Millet, " said Justice Hide, "when a prisoner at the bar wouldplead anything in formality, counsel should be allowed. "

"Oh, certainly, certainly, " replied the judge, recovering his suavity. Then turning to Ralph, he said, --

"What is the point of law you urge?"

"What I am accused of doing, " replied Ralph, "was done under thecommand of the Parliament, when the Parliament was the supreme power. "

"Silence, sir, " cried Justice Millet. "The Parliament was made up of apack of usurpers with a low mechanic fellow at their head. Gentlemen, "turning with a gracious smile to the jury, "you will remember what Isaid. "

"The Parliament was appointed by the people, " replied Ralph quietly, "and recognized by foreign princes. "

"It was only a third part of the constitution. "

"It did not live in a corner. The sound of it went out among manynations. "

Ralph still spoke calmly. The spectators held their breath. 

"Do you know where you are, sir?" cried the judge, now grown scarletwith anger. "You are in the court of his Majesty the King. Would youhave the boldness here, before the faces of the servants of thatgracious Prince, to justify your crimes by claiming for them theauthority of usurpers?" "I am but charged, " replied Ralph, "withputting my hand to that plough which all men were then compelled tofollow. I am but accused of fidelity to that cause which some of myprosecutors, as I see, did themselves at first submit to, andafterwards betray. "

At this there were loud murmurs in the court. The paper had fallenfrom the face of Justice Hide. His brother justice was livid withrage. 

"What fellow is this?" said the latter judge, with obvious uneasiness. "A dalesman from the mountains, did you say?"

"Dalesman or not, my lord, a cunning and dangerous man, " repliedcounsel. 

"I see already that he is one who is ready to say anything to save hismiserable life. "

"Brother Millet, " interrupted the other judge, "you have rightlyobserved that this is a court of his Gracious Majesty. Let us conductit as such. "

There was a rustle of gowns before the table and some whispering inthe court. 

"Mr. Ray, you have heard the indictment. It charges you as a falsetraitor against his Most Gracious Majesty, your supreme and naturallord. The course is for you to plead Guilty or Not Guilty. "

"Have I no right to the General Pardon?" asked Ralph. 

Justice Millet, recovering from some temporary discomfiture, interposed, --

"The proclamation of pardon was issued before his Majesty came intopossession. "

"And my crime--was not that committed before the King came intopossession? Are the King's promises less sacred than the people'slaws?"

Again some murmuring in the court. 

"Brother Hide, is the court to be troubled longer with these idledisputations?"

"I ask for counsel, " said Ralph. 

"This, " replied Justice Hide, "is not a matter in which counsel can beassigned. If your crime be treason, it cannot be justified; if it bejustifiable, it is not treason. The law provides that _we_ shall beyour counsel, and, as such, I advise that you do not ask exemptionunder the Act of Oblivion, for that is equal to a confession. " "I donot confess, " said Ralph. 

"You must plead Guilty or Not Guilty. There is no third course. Areyou Guilty or Not Guilty?"

There was a stillness like that of the chamber of death in the courtas this was spoken. 

Ralph paused, lifted his head, and looked calmly about him. Every eyewas fixed on his face. That face was as firm as a rock. Two eyes nearthe door were gleaming with the light of fiendish triumph. Ralphreturned his gaze to the judges. Still the silence was unbroken. Itseemed to hang in the air. 

"Guilty or Not Guilty?"

There was no reply. 

"Does the prisoner refuse to plead?" asked Justice Hide. Still therewas no reply. Not a whisper in the court; not the shuffle of a foot. The judge's voice fell slowly on the ear, --

"Ralph Ray, we would not have you deceive yourself. If you do notplead, it will be the same with you as if you had confessed. "

"Am I at liberty to stand mute?"

"Assuredly not, " Justice Millet burst out, pulling his robes abouthim. 

"Your pardon, brother; it is the law that the prisoner may stand muteif he choose. "

Then turning to Ralph, --

"But why?"

"To save from forfeiture my lands, sheep, goods, and chattels, andthose of my mother and brother, falsely stated to be mine. "

Justice Millet gave an eager glance at Justice Hide. 

"It is the law, " said the latter, apparently replying to an unutteredquestion. "The estate of an offender cannot be seized to the King'suse before conviction. My Lord Coke is very clear on that point. It isthe law; we must yield to it. "

"God forefend else!" replied Justice Millet in his meekest tone. 

"Ralph Ray, " continued the judge, "let us be sure that you know whatyou do. If you stand mute a terrible punishment awaits you. "

Justice Millet interposed, --

"I repeat that the prisoner _must_ plead. In the ancient law of _peineforte et dure_ an exception is expressly made of all cases ofregicide. "

"The indictment does not specify regicide as the prisoner's treason. "

Justice Millet hid his discomfiture in an ostentatious perusal of acopy of the indictment. 

"But do not deceive yourself, " continued the judge, turning againtowards the prisoner. "Do you know the penalty of standing mute? Doyou know that to save your estates to your family by refusing toplead, you must suffer a terrible death, --a death without judgment, adeath too shocking perhaps for so much as bare contemplation? Do youknow this?"

The dense throng in the court seemed not to breathe at that awfulmoment. Every one waited for the reply. It came slowly anddeliberately, --

"I know it. "

The paper dropped from the judge's hand, and fluttered to the floor. In the court there was a half-uttered murmur of amazement. A man stoodthere to surrender his life, with all that was near and dear to it. Not dogged, trapped, made desperate by fate, but cheerfully and of hisown free will. 

Wonder and awe fell on that firmament of faces. Brave fellows therefound the heart swell and the pulse beat quick as they saw that men--plain, rude men, Englishmen, kinsmen--might still do nobly. Cowardsshrank closer together. 

And, in the midst of all, the man who stood to die wore the serenestlook to be seen there. Not an eye but was upturned to his placid face. 

The judge's voice broke the silence, --

"And was it with this knowledge and this view that you surrendered?"

Ralph folded his arms across his breast and bowed. 

The silence could be borne no longer. The murmurs of the spectatorsbroke into a wild tumult of cheers, like the tossing of many waters;like the roar and lash of mighty winds that rise and swell, then ebband surge again. 

The usher of the court had not yet suppressed the applause, when itwas observed that a disturbance of another kind had arisen near thedoor. A young woman with a baby in her arms was crushing her way inpast the javelin man stationed there, and was craning her neck tocatch sight of the prisoner above the dense throng that occupied everyinch of the floor. 

"Let me have but a glance at him--one glance--for the dear God's sakelet me but see him--only once--only for a moment. "

The judge called for silence, and the officer was hurrying the womanaway when Ralph turned his face full towards the door. 

"I see him now, " said the woman. "He's not my husband. No, " she added, "but I've seen him before somewhere. "

"Where, my good woman? Where have you seen him before the day?"

This was whispered in her ear by a man who had struggled his way toher side. 

"Does he come from beyond Gaskarth?" she asked. 

"Why, why?"

"This commotion ill befits the gravity of a trial of such graveconcernment, " said one of the judges in an austere tone. 

In another moment the woman and her eager interlocutor had left thecourt together. 

There was then a brief consultation between the occupants of thebench. 

"The pardon is binding, " said one; "if it were otherwise it were thehardest case that could be for half the people of England. "

"Yet the King came back without conditions, " replied the other. 

There was a general bustle in the court. The crier proclaimed silence. 

"The prisoner stands remanded for one week. "

Then Ralph was removed from the bar. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. THE FIERY HAND. 

They drove Robbie Anderson that night to the house of the old womanwith whom he lodged, but their errand was an idle one. Reuben Thwaitejumped from the cart and rapped at the door. Old 'Becca Rudd openedit, held a candle over her head, and peered into the darkness. Whenshe heard what sick guest they had brought her, she trembled from headto foot, and cried to them not to shorten the life of a poor old soulwhose days were numbered. 

"Nay, nay; take him away, take him away, " she said. 

"Art daft, or what dusta mean?" said Mattha from his seat in the cart. 

"Nay, but have mercy on me, have mercy on me, " cried 'Beccabeseechingly. 

"Weel, weel, " said Mattha, "they do say as theer's no fools like auldfools. Why, the lad's ram'lin'. Canst hear?--ram'lin'. Wadst hev uskeck him intil the dike to die like ony dog?"

"Take him away, take him away, " cried 'Becca, retiring inwards, herimportunity becoming every moment louder and more vehement. 

"I reckon ye wad be a better stepmother to yon brocken-backt bitch ofyours an it had the mange?" said Mattha. 

"Nay, but the plague--the plague. Ye've heard what the new preachersare telling about the plague. Robbie's got it, Robbie's got theplague; I'm sure of it, sure. "

'Becca set down the candle to wring her hands. 

"So thoo's sure of it, ista?" said Mattha. "Weel, I'll tell thee what_I_'s sure on, and that is that thoo art yan o' them folks as waddantpart with the reek off their kail. Ye'r nobbut an auld blatherskite, 'Becca, as preaches mair charity in a day ner ye'r ready to stand byin a twelvemonth. Come, Reuben, whip up yer dobbin. Let's away to myown house. I'd hev to be as poor as a kirk louse afore I'd turn myback on a motherless lad as is nigh to death's door. "

"Don't say that, father, " whimpered Liza. 

"Nay, Mattha, nay, man, " cried 'Becca, "it's nought of that. It's mylife that's in danger. "

"Shaf! that 'at is nowt is nivver in danger. Whear's the plague as wadthink it worth while to bodder wid a skinflint like thee? Good neet, 'Becca, good neet, and 'od white te, lass, God requite thee!"

So they drove to Matthew Branthwaite's cottage, and installed the sickman in the disused workroom, where the loom had stood silent fornearly ten years. 

A rough shakedown was improvised, a log fire was speedily kindled, andin half an hour Mrs. Branthwaite was sitting at Robbie's bedsidebathing his hot forehead with cloths damped in vinegar. The littlewoman--timid and nervous in quieter times--was beginning to show somemettle now. 

"Robbie has the fever, the brain fever, " she said. She was right. Theold wife's diagnosis was as swift as thought. Next day they sent forthe doctor from Gaskarth. He came; looked wise and solemn; asked threequestions in six syllables apiece, and paused between them. Then hefelt the sick man's pulse. He might almost have heard the tick of it. Louder was the noise of the beating heart. Still not a word. In thedread stillness out came the lance, and Robbie was bled. Then sundryhums and ahs, but no syllable of counsel or cheer. 

"Is there any danger?" asked little Liza in a fretful tone. She wasstanding with head averted from the bowl which was in her mother'shands, with nervous fingers and palpitating breast. 

The wise man replied in two guarded words. 

Robbie had appeared to be conscious before the operation of the lance. He was wandering again. He would soon be wildly delirious. 

The great man took up his hat and his fee together. His silence atleast had been golden. 

"Didsta iver see sic a dumb daft boggle?" said Mattha as the doctordisappeared. "It cannot even speak when it's spoken to. "

The medical ghost never again haunted that particular ghost-walk. 

Robbie lay four days insensible, and Mrs. Branthwaite wasthenceforward his sole physician and nurse. On the afternoon of thethird day of Robbie's illness--it was Sunday--Rotha Stagg left her ownpeculiar invalid in the care of one of the farm women and walked overto Mattha's house. 

Willy Ray had not returned from Carlisle. He had exchanged scarcelysix words with her since the interview previously recorded. Rotha hadnot come to Shoulthwaite for Willy's satisfaction. Neither would sheleave it for his displeasure. 

When the girl reached the weaver's cottage and entered the sick-room, Mattha himself was sitting at the fireside, with a pipe, puffing thesmoke up the chimney. Mrs. Branthwaite was bathing the sick man'shead, from which the hair had been cut away. Liza was persuadingherself that she was busy sewing at a new gown. The needle stuck andstopped twenty times a minute. Robbie was delirious. 

"Robbie, Robbie, do you know who has come to see you?" said Liza, bending over him. 

"Ey, mother, ey, here I am, home at last, " muttered Robbie. 

"He's ram'lin' agen, " said Mattha from the chimney corner. 

"Bless your old heart, mammy, but I'll mend my management. I will, that I will. It's true _this_ time, mammy, ey, it is. No, no; try meagain just _once_, mammy!"

"He's forever running on that, poor lad, " whispered Mattha. "I reckonit's been a sair point with him sin' he put auld Martha intil t'grund. "

"Don't greet, mammy; don't greet. "

Poor Liza found the gown wanted close attention at that moment. Itwent near enough to her eyes. 

"I say it was fifty strides to the north of the bridge! Swear it? Ey, swear it!" cried Robbie at a fuller pitch of his weakened voice. 

"He's olas running on that, too, " whispered Mattha to Rotha. "Dustamind 'at laal Reuben said the same?"

In a soft and pleading tone Robbie mumbled on, --

"Don't greet, mammy, or ye'll kill me sure enough. Killing _you?_ Ey, it's true it's true; but I'll mend my management--I _will_. " Therewere sobs in Robbie's voice, but no tears in his bloodshot eyes. 

"There, there, Robbie, " whispered Mrs. Branthwaite soothingly in hisear; "rest thee still, Robbie, rest thee still. "

It was a pitiful scene. The remorse of the poor, worn, wayward, tender-hearted lad seemed to rend the soul in his unconscious body. 

"If he could but sleep!" said Mrs. Branthwaite; "but he cannot. "

Liza got up and went out. 

Robbie struggled to raise himself on one elbow. His face, red as afurnace, was turned aside as though in the act of listening for somenoise far away. Then in a thick whisper he said, --

"Fifty strides north of the bridge. No dreaming about it--north, Isay, north. "

Robbie sank back exhausted, and Rotha prepared to leave. 

"It were that ducking of his heed did it, sure enough, " said Mattha, "that and the drink together. I mind Bobbie's father--just sic like, just sic like! Poor auld Martha, she _hed_ a sad bout of it, she hed, what with father and son. And baith good at the bottom, too, baith, poor lads. "

A graver result than any that Mattha dreamt of hung at this moment onRobbie's insensibility, and when consciousness returned thecatastrophe had fallen. 

CHAPTER XL. GARTH AND THE QUAKERS. 

As Rotha left the weaver's cottage she found Liza in the porch. 

"I'm just laughing at the new preachers, " she said huskily. She wasturning her head aside slyly to brush the tears from her eyes into ashawl which was over her head. 

"There they are by the Lion. It's wrong to laugh, but they are realfunny, aye!"

The artifice was too palpable to escape Rotha's observation. Without aword she put her arms about Liza and kissed her. Then the lurkingtears gushed out openly, and the girl wept on her breast. They partedin silence, and Rotha walked towards a little company gathered underthe glow of a red sun on the highway, and almost in front of thevillage inn. They were the "new preachers" of whom Liza had spoken. The same that had, according to Robbie's landlady, foretold theplague. They were three men, and they stood in the middle of a ring ofmen, women, and children. One of them, tall and gaunt, with long grayhair and wild eyes, was speaking at the full pitch of his voice. Another was emphasizing his words with loud hallelujahs. Then thethird dropped down on his knees in the road, and prayed withearnestness in a voice that rang along the village street--silentto-day, save for him--and echoed back and back. Before the prayer hadquite ended a hymn was begun in a jaunting measure, with a chorus thatdanced to a spirit of joyfulness. 

Then came another exhortation. It was heavy with gloomy prediction. The world was full of oppression, and envy, and drunkenness, and vainpleasures. Men had forsaken the light that should enlighten all men. They were full of deceit and vanities. They put their trust in priestsand professors who were but empty hollow casks. "Yet the Lord is athand, " cried the preacher, "to thrash the mountains, and beat them todust. "

Another hymn followed, more jubilant than before. One by one thepeople around caught the contagion of excitement. There were old menthere with haggard faces that told of the long hard fight with theworld in which they were of the multitude of the vanquished; oldwomen, too, jaded and tired, and ready to slip into oblivion, theirlong day's duty done; mothers with babes in their arms and youngchildren nestling close at their sides; rollicking boys and girls aswell, with all the struggle of life in front of them. 

The simple Quaker hymn told of a great home of rest far away, yet verynear. 

The tumult had attracted the frequenters of the Red Lion, and some ofthese had stepped out on to the causeway. Two or three of them werealready drunk. Among them was Garth, the blacksmith. He laughedfrantically, and shrieked and crowed at every address and every hymn. When the preachers shouted "Hallelujah, " he shouted "Hallelujah" also;shouted again and again, in season and out of season; shouted until hewas hoarse, and the perspiration poured down his crimsoning face. Histipsy companions at first assisted him with noisy cheers. When one ofthe men in the ring lifted up his voice in the ardor of prayer, Garthyelled out yet louder to ask if he thought God Almighty was deaf. 

The people began to tremble at the blacksmith's blasphemies. Thetipsiest of his fellows slunk away from his side. 

The preacher spoke at one moment of the numbers of their following. 

"You carry a bottle of liquor somewhere, " cried Garth; "that's whythey follow you. "

Wearied out by such a shrieking storm of discord, one of the threeQuakers--a little man with quick eyes and nervous lips--made his waythrough the crowd to where the blacksmith stood at the outskirts ofit. Garth propped his back against the wall of the inn and laughedhysterically at the preacher's remonstrance: "Woe to thee and such asthee when God's love passes away from thee. "

Garth replied with a mocking blasphemy too terrible for record. Herepeated it, shouted it, screamed it. 

In sheer horror the Quaker dropped on his knees in front of theblacksmith and muttered a prayer that was almost inaudible:--

"God grant that the seven devils, yea seven times seven, may come outof him!"

Then Garth was silent for a moment. 

"I knew such a one as thou art five years ago, " said the Quaker; "andwhere thinkest thou he died?"

"Where?" said Garth, with a drunken hiccup. 

"But he was a saved man at last--saved by the light with which Christenlightened all men--saved--"

"Where?" repeated Garth, with a hideous imprecation. 

"On the gallows--he had killed his own father--he was--"

"Curse you! Curse you on earth and in hell!"

The people who had crowded round held their hands to their ears toshut out the fearful blasphemies. Garth, sobered somewhat by ragewhich was no longer assumed but real, pushed them aside and strodedown the lane. 

Rotha turned away from the crowd and walked towards Shoulthwaite. Before her, at fifty paces, the blacksmith tramped doggedly on, withhead towards the ground. Drunk, mad, devilish as at this moment hemight be, Rotha felt an impulse to overtake him. She knew not whatpower prompted her, or what idea or what hope. Never before had shefelt an instinct drawing her to this man. Yet she wished to speak withhim now. Would she had done so! Would she had done so--not for hissake or yet for hers--but now, even now, while the impieties were hoton his burning lips!

Rotha ran a step or two and stopped. Garth shambled sullenly on. Henever lifted his eyes to the sky. 

When he reached his home he threw himself on the skemmel drawn up tothe hearth. He was sober now. His mother had been taking her Sundayafternoon's sleep on the settle, which stood at one side of thekitchen. His noisy entrance awoke her. He broke the peat with thepeat-stick and kicked it into the fire. 

"What's come ower thee?" said Mrs. Garth, opening her eyes andyawning. 

"What's come over you more like?" growled Joe. 

"What now?"

"Do you sell your own flesh and blood?" said Joe. "Sell? What's thymare's nest now, thou weathercock? One wouldn't think that butter wadmelt in thy mouth sometimes, and then agen--"

"I'm none so daft as daftly dealt with, mother, " interrupted theblacksmith. 

"I've telt thee afore thou'rt yan of the wise asses. What do you meanby _sell?_"

"I reckon _you_ know when strangers in the street can tell me. "

The blacksmith coiled himself up in his gloomy reserve and stared intothe fire. 

"Oh, thou's heard 'at yon man's in Doomsdale, eh?"

Joe grunted something that was inarticulate. 

"I mean to hear the trial, " continued Mrs. Garth, with a purr ofsatisfaction. 

"Maybe you wouldn't like to see me in his place, mother? Oh, no;certainly not. "

"Thou great bledderen fool, " cried Mrs. Garth, getting on to her feetand lifting her voice to a threatening pitch; "whearaway hast been?"

Joe growled again, and crept closer over the fire, his mother's brawnyfigure towering above him. 

CHAPTER XLI. A HORSE'S NEIGH. 

A bleared winter sun was sinking down through a scarf of mist. Rothawas walking hurriedly down the lonnin that led from the house on theMoss. Laddie, the collie, had attached himself to her since Ralph'sdeparture, and now he was running by her side. 

She was on her way to Fornside, but on no errand of which she wasconscious. Willy Ray had not yet returned. Her father had not comeback from his long journey. Where was Willy? Where was her father?What kept them away? And what of Ralph--standing as he did, in thejaws of that Death into which her own hands had thrust him! Would hopeever again be possible? These questions Rotha had asked herself ahundred times, and through the responseless hours of the long days andlonger nights of more than a week she had lived on somehow, somehow, somehow. 

The anxiety was burning her heart away; it would be burnt as dry asashes soon. And she had been born a woman--a weak woman--a thing meantto sit at home with her foot on the treadle of her poor little wheel, while dear lives were risked and lost elsewhere. 

Rotha was a changed being. She was no longer the heartsome lassie whohad taken captive the stoical fancy of old Angus. Tutored bysuffering, she had become a resolute woman. Goaded by something akinto despair, she was now more dangerous than resolute. 

She was to do strange things soon. Even her sunny and girlishingenuousness was to desert her. She was to become as cunning asdauntless. Do you doubt it? Put yourself in her place. Think of whatshe had done, and why she had done it; think of what came of it, andmay yet come of it. Then look into your own heart; or, better far, look into the heart of another--you will be quicker to detect thetruth and the falsehood that lies _there_. 

Then listen to what the next six days will bring forth. 

The cottage at Fornside has never been occupied since the tailorabandoned it. Hardly in Wythburn was there any one so poor as to covetsuch shelter for a home. It was a single-storied house with its backto the road. Its porch was entered from five or six steps that leddownwards from a little garden. It had three small rooms, with lowceilings and paved floors. In the summer the fuchsia flecked its frontwith white and red. In these winter days the dark ivy was all thatgrew about it. 

Lonely, cheerless, and now proscribed by the fears and superstitionsof the villagers, it stood as gaunt as a solitary pine on the mountainhead that has been blasted and charred by the lightning. 

When Rotha reached it she hesitated as if uncertain whether to go inor go back. She stood at the little wicket, while the dog bounded intothe garden. In another moment Laddie had run into the house itself. 

How was this? She had locked the door. The key had been hidden asusual in the place known only to her father and herself. Rotha hurrieddown, and pushed her hand deep into the thatch covering the porch. Thekey was gone. The door stood open. 

And now, besides the pat of the dog's feet, she heard noises fromwithin. 

Rotha put her hand to her heart. Could it be that her father had comehome? Was he here, here?

The girl stepped into the kitchen. Then a loud clash, as of a closingchest, came from an inner room. In an instant there was the rustle ofa dress, and Mrs. Garth and Rotha were face to face in that dimtwilight. 

The recoil of emotion was too much for the girl. She stood silent. Thewoman looked at her for an instant with something more like afrightened expression than had yet been seen on her hard face. 

Then she brushed past her and away. 

"Stop!" cried Rotha, recovering herself. 

The woman was gone, and the girl did not pursue her. 

Rotha went into the room which Mrs. Garth had come from. It wasWilson's room. There was his trunk still, which none had claimed. Thetrunk--the hasty closing of its lid had been the noise she heard! Butit had always been heavily locked. With feverish fingers Rothaclutched at the great padlock that hung from the front of the trunk. It had a bunch of keys suspended from it. They were strange to her. Whose keys were they?

The trunk was not locked; the lid had merely been shut down. Rotharaised it with trembling hands. Inside were clothes of various kinds, but these had been thrust hurriedly aside, and beneath them werepapers--many papers--scattered loosely at the bottom. What were they?

It was growing dark. Rotha remembered that there was no candle in thehouse, and no lamp that had oil. She thrust her hand down to snatch upthe papers, meaning to carry them away. She touched the dead man'sclothes, and shrank back affrighted. The lid fell heavily again. 

The girl began to quiver in every limb. 

Who could say that the spirits of the dead did not haunt the scenes oftheir lives and deaths? Gracious heaven! she was in Wilson's room!

Rotha tottered her way out in the gathering gloom, clutching at thedoor as she went. Back in the porch again, she felt for the key to theouter door. It was in the lock. She should carry it with her thistime. Then she remembered the keys in the trunk. She must carry themaway also. She never asked herself why. What power of good or evil wasprompting the girl?

Calling the dog, she went boldly into the house again, and once moreinto the dead man's room. She fixed the padlock, turned the key, drewit out of its wards, and put the bunch of keys in her pocket. In twominutes more she was on the high road, walking back to Shoulthwaite. 

There was something in her heart that told her that to-day's event wasbig with issues. And, truly, an angel of light had led her to thatdark house. 

The sun was gone. A vapory mist was preceding the night. The dead daylay clammy on her hands and cheeks. 

When she reached the Fornside road, her eyes turned towards thesmithy. There it was, and a bright red glow from the fire, white atits hissing heart, lit up the air about it. Rotha could hear the thickbreathing of the bellows and the thin tinkle of the anvil. Save forthese all was silent. What was the secret of the woman who livedthere? That it concerned her father, Ralph, herself, and all peopledear to her, was as clear as day to Rotha. The girl then resolvedthat, come what should or could, that secret should be torn from thewoman's heart. 

The moon was struggling feebly through a ridge of cloud, lighting thesky at moments like a revolving lamp at sea. On the road home Rothapassed two young people who were tripping along and laughing as theywent. 

"Good night, Rotha, " said the young dalesman. 

"Good night, dear, " said his sweetheart. 

Rotha returned the salutations. 

"Fine lass that, " said the young fellow in a whisper. 

"Do you think so? She's too moapy for me, " replied his companion. "Ihate moapy folks. "

After this slight interruption the two resumed the sport of their goodspirits. 

The moon had cleared the clouds now. 

It was to be just such a night--save for the frost and wind--as thatfateful one on which Ralph and Rotha walked together from the RedLion. How happy that night had seemed to her then to be--happy, atleast, until the end! She had even sung under the moonlight. But hersongs had been truer than she knew--terribly, horribly true. 

 One lonely foot sounds on the keep, And that's the warder's tread. 

Step by step Rotha retraced every incident of that night's walk; everyword of Ralph's and every tone. 

He had told her that her father was innocent, and that he knew it wasso. 

He had asked her if she did not love her father, and she had said, "Better than all the world. "

Had that been true, quite _true?_ Rotha stopped and plucked at a boughin the fence. 

When she had asked him the cause of his sadness, when she had hintedthat perhaps he was keeping something behind which might yet take allthe joy out of the glad news that he gave her--what, then, had hesaid? He had told her there was nothing to come that need mar herhappiness or disturb her love. Had that also been true, _quite_ true?No, no, no, neither had been true; but the falsehood had been hers. 

She loved her father, yes; but not, no, not better than all the world. And what had come after had marred her happiness and disturbed herlove. Where lay her love--where?

Rotha stopped again, and as though to catch her breath. Nature withinher seemed at war with itself. It was struggling to tear away a maskthat hid its own face. That mask must soon be plucked aside. 

Rotha thought of her betrothal to Willy, and then a cold chill passedover her. 

She walked on until she came under the shadow of the trees beneathwhich Angus Ray had met his death. There she paused and looked down. She could almost conjure up the hour of the finding of the body. 

At that moment the dog was snuffling at the very spot. Here it wasthat she herself had slipped; here that Ralph had caught her in hisarms; here, again, that he had drawn her forward; here that they hadheard noises from the court beyond. 

Stop--what noise was _that!_ It was the whinny of a horse! They hadheard that too. Her dream of the past and the present reality werejumbling themselves together. 

Again? No, no; that was the neigh--the real neigh--of a horse. Rothahastened forward. The dog had run on. A minute later Laddie wasbarking furiously. Rotha reached the courtyard. 

There stood the old mare, exactly as before!

Was it a dream? Had she gone mad? Rotha ran and caught the bridle. 

Yes, yes! It was a reality. It was Betsy!

There was no coffin on her back; the straps that had bound it nowdangled to the ground. 

But it was the mare herself, and no dream. 

Yes, Betsy had come home. 

CHAPTER XLII. THE FATAL WITNESS. 

Long before the hour appointed for the resumption of the trial ofRalph Ray, a great crowd filled the Market Place at Carlisle, andlined the steps of the old Town Hall, to await the opening of thedoors. As the clock in the cupola was striking ten, three men insidethe building walked along the corridor to unbar the public entrance. 

"I half regret it, " said one; "you have forced me into it. I shouldnever have touched it but for you. "

"Tut, man, " whispered another, "you saw how it was going. With yon manon the bench and yon other crafty waistrel at the bar, the chance waswellnigh gone. What hope was there of a conviction?"

"None, none; never make any more botherment about it, Master Lawson, "said the third. 

"The little tailor is safe. He can do no harm as a witness. "

"I'm none so sure of that, " rejoined the first speaker. 

The door was thrown open and the three men stepped aside to allow thecrush to pass them. One of the first to enter was Mrs. Garth. Theuncanny old crone cast a quick glance about her as she came in withthe rest, hooded close against the cold. Her eyes fell on one of thethree men who stood apart. For a moment she fixed her gaze steadfastlyupon him, and then the press from behind swept her forward. But inthat moment she had exchanged a swift and unmistakable glance ofrecognition. The man's face twitched slightly. He looked relieved whenthe woman had passed on. 

Dense as had been the throng that filled the court on the earlierhearing, the throng was now even yet more dense. The benches usuallyprovided for the public had been removed, and spectators stood onevery inch of the floor. Some crept up to the windows, and climbed onto the window boards. One or two daring souls clambered over theshoulders of their fellows to the principals of the roof, and satperched across them. The old court house was paved and walled withpeople. 

From the entrance at the western end the occupants of the seats beforethe table filed in one by one. The first to come was the sheriff, Wilfrey Lawson. With papers in hand, he stationed himself immediatelyunder the jurors' box and facing the bar. Then came the clerk of thecourt, who was making an ostentatious display of familiarity withcounsel for the King, who walked half a pace behind him. 

The judges took their seats. As they entered, the gentleman of therubicund complexion was chatting in a facetious vein with his brotherjudge, who, however, relaxed but little of the settled austerity ofhis countenance under the fire of many jests. 

Silence was commanded, and Ralph Ray was ordered to the bar. He hadscarcely taken his place there when the name of Simeon Stagg was alsocalled. For an instant Ralph looked amazed. The sheriff observed hisastonishment and smiled. The next moment Sim was by his side. His facewas haggard; his long gray-and-black hair hung over his temples. Hewas led in. He clutched feverishly at the rail in front. He had notyet lifted his eyes. After a moment he raised them, and met the eyesof Ralph turned towards him. Then he shuffled and sidled up to Ralph'selbow. The people stretched their necks to see the unexpectedprisoner. 

After many preliminary formalities it was announced that the grandjury had found a true bill for murder against the two prisoners. 

The indictment was read. It charged Ralph Ray and Simeon Stagg withhaving murdered with malice aforethought James Wilson, agent to theKing's counsel. 

The prisoners were told to plead. Ralph answered promptly and in aclear tone, "Not Guilty. " Sim hesitated, looked confused, stammered, lifted his eyes as if inquiringly to Ralph's face, then mutteredindistinctly, "Not Guilty. "

The judges exchanged glances. The clerk, with a sneer on his lip, mumbled something to counsel. The spectators turned with a slightbustle among themselves. Their pleas had gone against theprisoners--at least against Ralph. 

When the men at the bar were asked how they would be tried, Ralphturned to the bench and said he had been kept close prisoner for sevendays, none having access to him. Was he to be called to trial, notknowing the charge against him until he was ordered to the bar?

No attention was paid to his complaint, and the jury was empanelled. Then counsel rose, and with the customary circumlocution opened thecase against the prisoners. In the first place, he undertook toindicate the motive and occasion of the horrid, vile, and barbarouscrime which had been committed, and which, he declared, scarceanything in the annals of justice could parallel; then, he would setforth the circumstances under which the act was perpetrated; and, finally, he proposed to show what grounds existed for inferring thatthe prisoners were guilty thereof. 

He told the court that the deceased James Wilson, as became himaccording to the duty of his secret office, had been a very zealousperson. In his legal capacity he had sought and obtained a warrant forthe arrest of the prisoner Ray. That warrant had never been served. Why? The dead body of Wilson had been found at daybreak in a lonelyroad not far from the homes of both prisoners. The warrant was not onthe body. It had been missing to that day. His contention would bethat the prisoners had obtained knowledge of the warrant; that theyhad waylaid the deceased agent in a place and at a time mostconvenient for the execution of their murderous design. With thecunning of clever criminals, they had faced the subsequent coroner'sinquiry. One of them, being the less artful, had naturally come undersuspicion. The other, a cunning and dangerous man, had even taken anactive share in defending his confederate. But being pursued by aguilty conscience, they dared not stay at the scene of their crime, and both had fled from their homes. All this would be justified bystrong and undeniable circumstances. 

Counsel resumed his seat amid the heavy breathings and inaudiblemutterings of the throng behind him. He was proceeding to call hiswitnesses, when Ralph asked to be heard. 

"Is it the fact that I surrendered of my own free will and choice?"

"It is. " "Is it assumed that I was prompted to that step also by aguilty conscience?"

Counsel realized that he was placed on the horns of a dilemma. Ignoring Ralph, he said, --

"My lords, the younger prisoner _did_ surrender. He surrendered to awarrant charging him with conspiring to subvert the King's authority. He threw himself on the mercy of his Sovereign, and claimed thebenefit of the pardon. And why? To save himself from indictment on thecapital charge; at the price, peradventure, of a fine or a year'simprisonment to save himself from the gallows. Thus he tried tohoodwink the law; but, my lords, "--and counsel lifted himself to hisutmost height, --"the law is not to be hoodwinked. "

"God forfend else!" echoed Justice Millet, shifting in his seat andnodding his head with portentous gravity. 

"I was loath to interrupt you, " said Justice Hide, speaking calmly andfor the first time, "or I should have pointed out wherein yourstatement did not correspond with the facts of the prisoner Ray'sconduct as I know it. Let us without delay hear the witnesses. "

The first witness called was a woman thinly and poorly clad, who cameto the box with tears in her eyes, and gave the name of MargaretRushton. Ralph recognized her as the young person who had occasioned amomentary disturbance near the door towards the close of the previoustrial. Sim recognized her also, but his recollection dated fartherback. 

She described herself as the wife of a man who had been outlawed, andwhose estates had been sequestered. She had been living the life of avagrant woman. 

"Was your husband named John Rushton?" asked Ralph. 

"Yes, " she replied meekly, and all but inaudibly. 

"John Rushton of Aberleigh!"

"The same. "

"Did you ever hear him speak of an old comrade--Ralph Ray?"

"Yes, yes, " answered the witness, lifting her hands to her face andsobbing aloud. 

"The prisoner wastes the time of the court. Let us proceed. "

Ralph saw the situation at a glance. The woman's evidence--whatever itmight be--was to be forced from her. "Have you seen these prisonersbefore?"

"Yes, one of them. "

"Perhaps both?"

"Yes, perhaps both. "

"Pray tell my lords and the jury what you know concerning them. "

The woman tried to speak and stopped, tried again and stopped. 

Counsel, coming to her relief, said, --

"It was in Wythburn you saw them; when was that?"

"I passed through it with my two children at Martinmas, " the witnessbegan falteringly. 

"Tell my lords and the jury what happened then. "

"I had passed by the village, and had come to a cottage that stood atthe angle of two roads. The morning was cold, and my poor babies werecrying. Then it came on to rain. So I knocked at the cottage, and anold man opened the door. "

"Do you see the old man in this court?"

"Yes--there, " pointing to where Sim stood in the dock with downcasteyes. 

There was a pause. 

"Come, good woman, let my lords and the jury hear what further youknow of this matter. You went into the cottage!"

"He said I might warm the children at the fire; their little limbswere as cold as stone. "

"Well, well?"

"He seemed half crazed, I thought; but he was very kind to me and mylittle ones. He gave them some warm milk, and said we might stay tillthe weather cleared. It did not clear all day. Towards nightfall theold man's daughter came home. She was a dear fine girl, God blessher!"

The silence of the court was only disturbed by a stifled groan fromthe bar, where Sim still stood with downcast eyes. Ralph gazed througha blinding mist at the rafters overhead. 

"She nursed the little ones, and gave them oaten cake and barleybread. The good people were poor themselves; I could see they were. Itrained heavier than ever, so the young woman made a bed for us in alittle room, and we slept in the cottage until morning. "

"Was anything said concerning the room you slept in?" "They said itwas their lodger's room; but he was away, and would not return untilthe night following. "

"Next day you took the road towards the North?"

"Yes, towards Carlisle. They told me that if my husband were evertaken he would be brought to Carlisle. That was why I wished to gethere. But I had scarce walked a mile--I had a baby at the breast and alittle boy who could just toddle beside me--I had scarce walked a milebefore the boy became ill, and could not walk. I first thought to goback to the cottage, but I was too weak to carry both children. So Isat with my little ones by the roadside. "

The witness paused again. Ralph was listening with intense eagerness. He was leaning over the rail before him to catch every syllable. Whenthe woman had regained some composure he said quietly, --

"There is a bridge thereabouts that spans a river. Which side of thebridge were you then?"

"The Carlisle side; that is to say, the north. "

The voice of counsel interrupted a further inquiry. 

"Pray tell my lords and the jury what else you know, good woman. "

"We should have perished of cold where we sat, but looking up I sawthat there was a barn in a field close by. It was open to the front, but it seemed to be sheltered on three sides, and had some hay in it. So I made my way to it through a gate, and carried the children. "

"What happened while you were there?--quick, woman, let us get to thewicked fact itself. "

"We stayed there all day, and when the night came on I covered thelittle ones in the hay, and they cried themselves to sleep. "

The tears were standing in the woman's eyes. The eyes of others werewet. 

"Yes, yes, but what _occurred?_" said counsel, to whom the weeping ofoutcast babes was obviously less than an occurrence. 

"_I_ could not sleep, " said the woman hoarsely; and lifting her voiceto a defiant pitch, she said, "Would that the dear God had let mesleep that night of all nights of my life!"

"Come, good woman, " said counsel more soothingly, "what next?"

"I listened to the footsteps that went by on the road, and so theweary hours trailed on. At last they had ceased to come and go. It wasthen that I heard a horse's canter far away to the north. "

The witness was speaking in a voice so low as to be scarcely audibleto the people, who stood on tiptoe and held their breath to hear. 

"My little boy cried in his sleep. Then all was quiet again. "

Sim shuddered perceptibly. He felt his flesh creep. 

"The thought came to me that perhaps the man on the horse could giveme something to do the boy good. If he came from a distance, he wouldsurely carry brandy. So I labored out of the barn and trudged throughthe grass to the hedge. Then I heard footsteps on the road. They werecoming towards me. "

"Was it dark?"

"Yes, but not very dark. I could see the hedge across the way. The manon foot and the man on the horse came together near where I stood. "

"How near--twenty paces?"

"Less. I was about to call, when I heard the man on foot speak to theother, who was riding past him. "

"You saw both men clearly?"

"No, " replied the woman firmly; "not clearly. I saw the one on theroad. He was a little man, and he limped in his walk. "

In the stillness of the court Ralph could almost hear the womanbreathe. 

"They were quarrelling, the two men; you heard what they said?" saidcounsel, breaking silence. 

"It's not true, " cried the witness, in a hurried manner, "_I_ heardnothing. "

"This is no suborned witness, my lords, " said counsel in a cold voice, and with a freezing smile. "Well, woman?"

"The tall man leapt off his horse, and there was a struggle. Thelittle man was swearing. There was a heavy fall, and all was quietonce more. "

As she spoke the woman recoiled to the back of the box, and coveredher face in her hands. 

"What manner of man was the taller one?" "He had a strong face withbig features and large eyes. I saw him indistinctly. "

"Do you see him now?". 

"I cannot swear; but--but I think I do. "

"Is the prisoner who stands to the left the man you saw that night?"

"The voice is the same, the face is similar, and he wears the samehabit--a long dark coat lined with light flannel. "

"Is that all you know of the matter?"

"I knew that a crime had been committed in my sight. I felt that adead body lay close beside me. I was about to turn away, when I hearda third man come up and speak to the man on the horse. "

"You knew the voice?"

"It was the cottager who had given us shelter. I ran back to the barn, snatched up my two children in their sleep, and fled away across thefields--I know not where. "

Justice Hide asked the witness why she had not spoken of this before;three months had elapsed since then. 

She replied that she had meant to do so, but it came into her mindthat perhaps the cottager was somehow concerned in the crime, and sheremembered how good he and his daughter had been to her. 

"How had she come to make the disclosures now?"

The witness explained that when she crushed her way into the court aweek ago it was with the idea that the prisoner might be her husband. He was not her husband, but when she saw his face she remembered thatshe had seen him before. A man in the body of the court had followedher out and asked her questions. 

"Who was the man?" asked the judge, turning to the sheriff. 

The gentleman addressed pointed to a man near at hand, who rose atthis reference, with a smile of mingled pride and cunning, as thoughhe felt honored by this public disclosure of his astuteness. He was asmall man with a wrinkled face, and a sinister cast in one of hiseyes, which lay deep under shaggy brows. We have met him before. 

The judge looked steadily at him as he rose in his place. After aminute or two he turned again to look at him. Then he made some noteon a paper in his hand. 

The witness looked jaded and worn with the excitement. During herexamination Sim had never for an instant upraised his eyes from theground. The eagerness with which Ralph had watched her was written inevery muscle of his face. When liberty was given him to question her, he asked in a soft and tender voice if she knew what time of the nightit might be when she had seen what she had described. 

Between nine and ten o'clock as near as she could say, perhaps fullyten. 

Was she sure which side of the bridge she was on--north or south?

"Sure; it was north of the bridge. "

Ralph asked if the records of the coroner's inquiry were at hand. Theywere not. Could he have them examined? It was needless. But why?

"Because, " said Ralph, "it was sworn before the coroner that the bodywas found to the south of the bridge--fifty yards to the south of it. "

The point was treated with contempt and some derisive laughter. WhenRalph pressed it, there was humming and hissing in the court. 

"We must not expect that we can have exact and positive proof, " saidJustice Millet; "we would come as near as we can to circumstances bywhich a fact of this dark nature can be proved. It is easy for awitness to be mistaken on such a point. "

The young woman Margaret Rushton was being dismissed. 

"One word, " said Justice Hide. "You say you have heard your husbandspeak of the prisoner Ray; how has he spoken of him?"

"How?--as the bravest gentleman in all England!" said the womaneagerly. 

Sim lifted his head, and clutched the rail. "God--it's true, it'strue!" he cried hysterically, in a voice that ran through the court. 

"My lords, " said counsel, "you have heard the truth wrung from areluctant witness, but you have not heard all the circumstances ofthis horrid fact. The next witness will prove the motive of thecrime. "

A burly Cumbrian came into the box, and gave the name of ThomasScroope. He was an agent to the King's counsel. Ralph glanced at him. He was the man who insulted the girl in Lancaster. 

He said he remembered the defendant Ray as a captain in the trainedbands of the late Parliament. Ray was always proud and arrogant. Hehad supplanted the captain whose captaincy he afterwards held. 

"When was that?"

"About seven years agone, " rejoined the witness; adding in anundertone, and as though chuckling to himself, "he's paid dear enoughfor that sin' then. "

Ralph interrupted. 

"Who was the man I supplanted, as you say--the man who has made me paydear for it, as you think?"

No answer. 

"Who?"

"No matter that, " grumbled the witness. His facetiousness was gone. 

There was some slight stir beneath the jurors' box. 

"Tell the court the name of the man you mean. "

Counsel objected to the time of the court being wasted with suchquestions. 

Justice Hide overruled the objection. 

Amid much sensation, the witness gave the name of the sheriff ofCumberland, Wilfrey Lawson. 

Continuing his evidence in a defiant manner, the witness said heremembered the deceased agent, James Wilson. He saw him last the daybefore his death. It was in Carlisle they met. Wilson showed witness awarrant with which he was charged for Ray's arrest, and told him thatRay had often threatened him in years past, and that he believed hemeant to take his life. Wilson had said that he intended to bebeforehand, for the warrant was a sure preventive. He also said thatthe Rays were an evil family; the father was a hard, ungrateful brute, who had ill repaid him for six years' labor. The mother was best; butthen she was only a poor simple fool. The worst of the gang was thisRalph, who in the days of the Parliament had more than once threatenedto deliver him--Wilson--to the sheriff--the other so-called sheriff, not the present good gentleman. 

Ralph asked the witness three questions. 

"Have we ever met before?"

"Ey, but we'll never meet again, I reckon, " said the man, with aknowing wink. 

"Did you serve under me in the army of the Parliament?"

"Nowt o' t' sort, " with a growl. 

"Were you captured by the King's soldiers, and branded with a hotiron, as a spy of their own who was suspected of betraying them?"

"It's a' a lie. I were never brandet. "

"Pull up the right sleeves of your jerkin and sark. "

The witness refused. 

Justice Hide called on the keeper to do so. 

The witness resisted, but the sleeves were drawn up to the armpit. Theflesh showed three clear marks as of an iron band. 

The man was hurried away, amid hissing in the court. 

The next witness was the constable, Jonathan Briscoe. He describedbeing sent after Wilson early on the day following that agent'sdeparture from Carlisle. His errand was to bring back the prisoner. Hearrived at Wythburn in time to be present at the inquest. The prisonerStagg was then brought up and discharged. 

Ralph asked if it was legal to accuse a man a second time of the sameoffence. 

Justice Millet ruled that the discharge of a coroner (even though hewere a resident justice as well) was no acquittal. 

The witness remembered how at the inquiry the defendant Ray haddefended his accomplice. He had argued that it was absurd to supposethat a man of Stagg's strength could have killed Wilson by a fall. Only a more powerful man could have done so. 

"Had you any doubt as to who that more powerful man might be?"

"None, not I. I knew that the man whose game it was to have thewarrant was the likest man to have grabbed it. It warn't on the body. There was not a scrap of evidence against Ray, or I should have takenhim then and there. "

"You tried to take him afterwards, and failed. "

"That's true enough. The man has the muscles of an ox. "

The next two witnesses were a laborer from Wythburn, who spoke againto passing Sim on the road on the night of the murder, and meetingWilson a mile farther north, and Sim's landlord, who repeated hisformer evidence. 

There was a stir in the court as counsel announced his last witness. Awoman among the spectators was muttering something that was inaudibleexcept to the few around her. The woman was Mrs. Garth. Willy Raystood near her, but could not catch her words. 

The witness stepped into the box. There was no expression of surpriseon Ralph's face when he saw who stood there to give evidence againsthim. It was the man who had been known in Lancaster as his "Shadow";the same that had (with an earlier witness) been Robbie Anderson'scompanion in his night journey on the coach; the same that passedRobbie as he lay unconscious in Reuben Thwaite's wagon; the same thathad sat in the bookseller's snug a week ago; the same that Mrs. Garthhad recognized in the corridor that morning; the same that JusticeHide had narrowly scrutinized when he rose in the court to claim thehonor of ferreting the facts out of the woman Rushton. 

He gave the name of Mark Wilson. 

"Your name again?" said Justice Hide, glancing at a paper in his hand. 

"Mark Wilson. "

Justice Hide beckoned the sheriff and whispered something. The sheriffcrushed his way into an inner room. 

"The deceased James Wilson was your brother?"

"He was. "

"Tell my lords and the jury what you know of this matter. "

"My brother was a zealous agent of our gracious King, " said thewitness, speaking in a tone of great humility. "He even left hishome--his wife and family--in the King's good cause. "

At this moment Sim was overtaken by faintness. He staggered, and wouldhave fallen. Ralph held him up, and appealed to the judges for a seatand some water to be given to his friend. The request was granted, andthe examination continued. 

The witness was on the point of being dismissed when the sheriffre-entered, and, making his way to the bench, handed a book to JusticeHide. At the same instant Sim's attention seemed to be arrested to themost feverish alertness. Jumping up from the seat on which Ralph hadplaced him, he cried out in a thin shrill voice, calling on thewitness to remain. There was breathless silence in the court. 

"You say that your brother, " cried Sim, --"God in heaven, what amonster he was!--you say that he left his wife and family. Tell us, did he ever go back to them?"

"No. "

"Did you ever hear of money that your brother's wife came into afterhe'd deserted her--that was what he did, your lordships, deserted herand her poor babby--did you ever hear of it?"

"What if I did?" replied the witness, who was apparently too muchtaken by surprise to fabricate a politic falsehood. 

"Did you know that the waistrel tried to get hands on the money forhimself?"

Sim was screaming out his questions, the sweat standing in round dropson his brow. The judges seemed too much amazed to remonstrate. 

"Tell us, quick. Did he try to get hands on it?"

"Perhaps; what then?"

"And did he get it?"

"No. "

"And why not--why not?"

The anger of the witness threw him off his guard. 

"Because a cursed scoundrel stepped in and threatened to hang him ifhe touched the woman's money. "

"Aye, aye! and who was that cursed scoundrel?"

No answer. 

"Who, quick, who?"

"That man there!" pointing to Ralph. 

Loud murmurs came from the people in the court. In the midst of them awoman was creating a commotion. She insisted on going out. She criedaloud that she would faint. It was Mrs. Garth again. The sheriffleaned over the table to ask if these questions concerned the inquiry, but Sim gave no time for protest. He never paused to think if hisinquiries had any bearing on the issue. 

"And now tell the court your name. "

"I have told it. "

"Your _true_ name, and your brother's. "

Justice Hide looked steadily at the witness. He held an open book inhis hand. 

"Your _true_ name, " he said, repeating Sim's inquiry. 

"Mark Garth!" mumbled the witness. The judge appeared to expect thatreply. 

"And your brother's?"

"Wilson Garth. "

"Remove the perjurer in charge. "

Sim sank back exhausted, and looked about him as one who had beennewly awakened from a dream. 

The feeling among the spectators, as also among the jurors, waveredbetween sympathy for the accused and certainty of the truth of theaccusation, when the sheriff was seen to step uneasily forward andhand a paper to counsel. Glancing hastily at the document, the lawyerrose with a smile of secure triumph and said that, circumstantial asthe evidence on all essential points had hitherto been, he was now ina position to render it conclusive. 

Then handing the paper to Ralph, he asked him to say if he had everseen it before. Ralph was overcome; gasping as if for breath, heraised one hand involuntarily to his breast. 

"Tell the court how you came by the instrument in your hand. "

There was no reply. Ralph had turned to Sim, and was looking into hisface with what appeared to be equal pity and contrition. 

The paper was worn, and had clearly been much and long folded. It wascharred at one corner as if at some moment it had narrowly escaped theflames. 

"My lords, " said counsel, "this is the very warrant which the deceasedWilson carried from Carlisle for the arrest of the prisoner who nowholds it; this is the very warrant which has been missing since thenight of the murder of Wilson; and where, think you, my lords, it wasfound? It was found--you have heard how foolish be the wise--look nowhow childishly a cunning man can sometimes act, how blundering areclever rogues!--it was found this morning on the defendant Ray'sperson while he slept, in an inner breast pocket, which was stitchedup, and seemed to have been rarely used. "

"That is direct proof, " said Justice Millet, with a glance at hisbrother on the bench. "After this there can be no doubt in any mind. "

"Peradventure the prisoner can explain how he came by the document, "said Justice Hide. 

"Have you anything to say as to how you became possessed of it?"

"Nothing. "

"Will you offer the court no explanation?"

"None. "

"Would the answer criminate you?"

No reply. 

For Ralph the anguish of years was concentrated in that moment. Hemight say where he was on the night of the murder, but then he had Simonly for witness. He thought of Robbie Anderson--why was he not here?But no, Robbie was better away; he could only clear him of this guiltby involving his father. And what evidence would avail against thetangible witness of the warrant? He had preserved that document withsome vague hope of serving Sim, but here it was the serpent in thebreast of both. 

"This old man, " he said, --his altered tone startled thelisteners, --"this old man, " he said, pointing to Sim at his side, "isas innocent of the crime as the purest soul that stands before theWhite Throne. "

"And what of yourself?"

"As for me, as for me, " he added, struggling with the emotion thatsurged in his voice, "in the sight of Him that searcheth all hearts Ihave acquittal. I have sought it long and with tears of Him beforewhom we are all as chaff. "

"Away with him, the blasphemer!" cried Justice Millet. "Know where youare, sir. This is an assembly of Christians. Dare you call God toacquit you of your barbarous crimes?"

The people in the court took up the judge's word and broke out into atempest of irrepressible groans. They were the very people who hadcheered a week ago. 

Sim cowered in a corner of the box, with his lank fingers in his longhair. 

Ralph looked calmly on. He was not to be shaken now. There was one wayin which he could quell that clamor and turn it into a tumult ofapplause, but that way should not be taken. He could extricate himselfby criminating his dead father, but that he should never do. And hadhe not come to die? Was not this the atonement he had meant to make?It was right, it was right, and it was best. But what of Sim; must hebe the cause of Sim's death also? "This poor old man, " he repeated, when the popular clamor had subsided, "he is innocent. "

Sim would have risen, but Ralph guessed his purpose and kept him tohis seat. At the same moment Willy Ray among the people was seenstruggling towards the witness-bar. Ralph guessed his purpose andchecked him, too, with a look. Willy stood as one petrified. He sawonly one of two men for the murderer--Ralph or his father. 

"Let us go together, " whispered Sim; and in another moment the judge(Justice Millet) was summing up. He was brief; the evidence of thewoman Rushton and of the recovered warrant proved everything. The casewas as clear as noonday. The jurors need not leave the box. 

Without retiring, the jury found a verdict of guilty against bothprisoners. 

The crier made proclamation of silence, and the awful sentence ofdeath was pronounced. 

It was remarked that Justice Hide muttered something about a "writ oferror, " and that when he rose from the bench he motioned the sheriffto follow him. 

CHAPTER XLIII. LOVE KNOWN AT LAST. 

Early next morning Willy Ray arrived at Shoulthwaite, splashed fromhead to foot, worn and torn. He had ridden hard from Carlisle, but notso fast but that two unwelcome visitors were less than half an hour'sride behind him. 

"Home again, " he said, in a dejected tone, throwing down his whip ashe entered the kitchen, "yet _home_ no longer. "

Rotha struggled to speak. "Ralph, where is he? Is he on the way?"These questions were on her lips, but a great gulp was in her throat, and not a word would come. 

"Ralph's a dead man, " said Willy with affected deliberation, pushingoff his long boots. 

Rotha fell back apace. Willy glanced up at her. 

"As good as dead, " he added, perceiving that she had taken his wordstoo literally. "Ah, well, it's over now, it's over; and if you had ahand in it, girl, may God forgive you!"

Willy said this with the air of a man who reconciles himself to aninjury, and is persuading his conscience that he pardons it. "Couldyou not give me something to eat?" he asked, after a pause. 

"Is that all you have to say to me?" said Rotha, in a voice as huskyas the raven's. 

Willie glanced at her again. He felt a passing pang of remorse. 

"I had forgotten, Rotha; your father, he is in the same case withRalph. "

Then he told her all; told her in a simple way, such as he believedwould appeal to what he thought her simple nature; told her of the twotrials and final conviction, and counselled her to bear her troublewith as stout a heart as might be. 

"It will be ended in a week, " he said, in closing his narrative; "andthen, Heaven knows what next. " Rotha stood speechless by the chair ofthe unconscious invalid, with a face more pale than ashes, and fingersclinched in front of her. 

"It comes as a shock to you, Rotha, for you seemed somehow to loveyour poor father. "

Still the girl was silent. Then Willy's sympathies, which had for twominutes been as unselfish as short-sighted, began to revolve afreshabout his own sorrows. 

"I can scarce blame you for what you did, " he said; "no, I can scarceblame you, when I think of it. He was not your brother, as he wasmine. You could know nothing of a brother's love; no, you could knownothing of that. "

"What _is_ the love of a brother?" said Rotha. 

Willy started at the unfamiliar voice. 

"What would be the love of a world of brothers to such a love as_mine?_"

Then stepping with great glassy eyes to where Willy sat, the girlclutched him nervously and said, "I loved him. "

Willy looked up with wonder in his face. 

"Yes, I! You talk _your_ love; it is but a drop to the ocean I bearhim. It is but a grain to the desert of love in my heart that shallnever, never blossom. "

"Rotha!" cried Willy, in amazement. 

"Your love! Why look you, under the wing of death--now that I maynever hope to win him--I tell you that I love Ralph. "

"Rotha!" repeated Willy, rising to his feet. 

"Yes, and shall love him when the grass is over him, or me, or both!"

"Love him?"

"To the last drop of my blood, to the last hour of my life, untilDeath's cold hand lies chill on this heart, until we stand togetherwhere God is, and all is love for ever and ever, I tell you I lovehim, and shall love him, as God Himself is my witness. "

The girl glowed with passion. Her face quivered with emotion, and herupturned eyes were not more full of inspiration than of tears. 

Willy sank back into his seat with a feeling akin to awe. 

"Let it be so, Rotha, " he said a moment later; "but Ralph is doomed. Your love is barren; it comes too late. Remember what you once said, that death comes to all. " "But there is something higher than deathand stronger, " cried Rotha, "or heaven itself is a lie and God amockery. No, they shall not die, for they are innocent. "

"Innocence is a poor shield from death. It was either father orRalph, " replied Willy, "and for myself I care not which. "

Then at a calmer moment he repeated to her afresh the evidence of theyoung woman Rushton, whom she and her father had housed at Fornside. 

"You are sure she said 'fifty yards to the _north_ of the bridge'?"interrupted Rotha. 

"Sure, " said Willy; "Ralph raised a question on the point, but theyflung it aside with contempt. "

"Robbie Anderson, " thought Rotha. "What does Robbie know of this thathe was forever saying the same in his delirium? Something he _must_know. I shall run over to him at once. "

But just then the two officers of the sheriff's court arrived again atShoulthwaite, and signified by various forms of freedom andfamiliarity that it was a part of their purpose to settle there untilsuch time as judgment should have taken its course, and left them theduty of appropriating the estate of a felon in the name of the crown. 

"Come, young mistress, lead us up to our room, and mind you seesmartly to that breakfast. Alack-a-day; we're as hungry as hawks. "

"You come to do hawks' business, sir, " said Rotha, "in spoilinganother's nest. "

"Ha! ha! ha! happy conceit, forsooth! But there's no need to glare atus like that, my sharp-witted wench. Come, lead on, but go slowly, there. This leg of mine has never mended, bating the scar, sinceyonder unlucky big brother of yours tumbled me on the mountains. "

"He's not my brother. "

"Sweetheart, then, ey? Why, these passages are as dark as the grave. "

"I wish they were as silent, and as deep too, for those who enterthem. "

"Ay, what, Jonathan? Grave, silent, deep--but then you would be buriedwith us, my pretty lassie. "

"And what of that? Here's your room, sirs. Peradventure it will serveuntil you take every room. " "Remember the breakfast, " cried the littleman, after Rotha's retreating figure. "We're as hungry as--as--"

"Hold your tongue, and come in, David. Brush the mud from yourpantaloons, and leave the girl to herself. "

"The brazen young noddle, " muttered David. 

It was less than an hour later when Rotha, having got through herimmediate duties, was hastening with all speed to Mattha Brander'scottage. In her hand, tightly grasped beneath her cloak, was a bunchof keys, and on her lips were the words of the woman's evidence and ofRobbie's delirium. "It was fifty yards to the north of the bridge. "

This was her sole clew. What could she make of it?

CHAPTER XLIV. THE CLEW DISCOVERED. 

An hour before Rotha left Shoulthwaite, Robbie Anderson was lying on asettle before the fire in the old weaver's kitchen. Mattha himself andhis wife were abroad, but Liza had generously and courageouslyundertaken the task of attending to the needs of the convalescent. 

"Where's all my hair gone?" asked Robbie, with a puzzled expression. He was rubbing his close-cropped head. 

Liza laughed roguishly. 

"Maybe it's fifty yards north of the bridge, " she said, with her headaside. 

Robbie looked at her with blank amazement. 

"Why, who told you that, Liza?" he said. 

"Told me what?"

"Ey? _That!_" repeated Robbie, no more explicit. 

"Foolish boy! Didn't you tell us yourself fifty times?"

"So I did. Did I though? What am I saying? When did I tell you?"

Robbie's eyes were staring out of his head. His face, not too ruddy atfirst, was now as pale as ashes. 

Liza began to whimper. 

"Why do you look like that?" she said. 

"Look? Oh, ey, ey! I'm a ruffian, that's what I am. Never mind, lass. "

Robbie's eyes regained their accustomed expression, and his features, which had been drawn down, returned to their natural proportions. 

Liza's face underwent a corresponding change. 

"Robbie, have you 'downed' him--that Garth?"

"Ey?"

The glaring eyes were coming back. Liza, frightened again, began oncemore to whimper prettily. 

"I didn't mean to flayte you, Liza, " Robbie said coaxingly. "You're afair coax when you want something, " said Liza, trying to disengageherself from the grasp of Robbie's arm about her waist. He might be aninvalid, Liza thought, but he was wonderfully strong, and he washolding her shockingly tight. What _was_ the good of struggling?

Robbie snatched a kiss. 

"Oh you--oh you--oh! oh! If I had known that you were so wicked--oh!"

"Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, or I will never let you go, never, " cried Robbie. 

"Never?" Liza felt that she _must_ forgive this tyrant. 

"Well, if you'll loosen this arm I'll--I'll _try_. "

"Liza, how much do you love me?" inquired Robbie. 

"Did you speak to me?"

"Oh, no, to crusty old 'Becca down the road. How much do you love me?"

Robbie's passion was curiously mathematical. 

"Me? How much? About as much as you might put in your eye. "

Robbie pretended to look deeply depressed. He dropped his head, butkept, nevertheless, an artful look out of the corner of the eye whichwas alleged to be the measure of his sweetheart's affection. 

Thinking herself no longer under the fire of Robbie's glances, Liza'saffectation of stern disdain melted into a look of tenderness. 

Robbie jerked his head up sharply. The little woman was caught. Sherevenged herself by assuming a haughty coldness. But it was of no use. Robbie laughed and crowed and bantered. 

At this juncture Mattha Branth'et came into the cottage. 

The weaver was obviously in a state of profound agitation. He had justhad a "fratch" with the Quaker preachers on the subject of election. 

"I rub't 'm t' wrang way o' t' hair, " said the old man, "when I axt'em what for they were going aboot preaching if it were all settledaforehand who was to be damned and who was to be saved. 'Ye'r a childof the devil, ' says one. 'Mebbee so, ' says I, 'and I dunnet know ifthe devil iver had any other relations; but if so, mebbee yersel's hisawn cousin. '"

It was hard on Matthew that, after upholding Quakerism for yearsagainst the sneers of the Reverend Nicholas Stevens, he should be thusdisowned and discredited by the brotherhood itself. 

"Tut! theer's six o' tean an' hofe a duzzen of t' tudder, " said theold sage, dismissing the rival theologians from his mind forever. 

"Oh, Robbie, lad, " said Matthew, as if by a sudden thought, "JohnJackson met Willy Ray coming frae Carlisle, and what think ye heshappent?"

"Nay, what?" said Robbie, turning pale again. 

"Ralph Ray and Sim Stagg are condemned to death for t' murder of auldWilson. "

Robbie leapt to his feet. 

"The devil!"

"Come, dunnet ye tak on like the Quakers, " said Matthew. 

Robbie had caught up his coat and hat. 

"Why, where are you going?" said Liza. 

"Going? Aye? Going?"

"Yes, where? You're too weak to go anywhere. You'll have anotherfever. "

A light wagon was running on the road outside. Reuben Thwaite wasdriving. 

Robbie rushed to the door, and hailed him. 

"Going off with thread again, Reuben?"

"That's reets on't, " answered the little man. 

"Let me in with you?"

And Robbie climbed into the cart. 

Mattha got up and went out in the road. 

 * * * * *

The two men had hardly got clear away when Rotha entered the cottageall but breathless. 

"Robbie, where is he?"

"Gone, just gone, not above two minutes, " replied Liza, stillwhimpering. 

"Where?"

"I scarce know--to Penrith, I think. There was no keeping him back. When father came in and told him what had happened at Carlisle, heflung away and would not be hindered. He has gone off in Reuben'swagon. "

"Which way?"

"They took the low road. "

"Then I've missed them, " said Rotha, sinking into a chair in alistless attitude. 

"And he's as weak as water, and he'll take another fever, as I toldhim, and ramble on same as--"

"Liza, " interrupted Rotha, "did you ever tell him--in play I mean--didyou ever repeat anything he had said when he was unconscious?"

"Not that about his mammy?"

"No, no; but anything else?"

"I mind I told him what he said over and over again about his fratchwith that Garth. "

"Nothing else?"

"Why, yes, now I think on't. I mind, too, that I told him he wasalways running on it that something was fifty yards north of thebridge, and he could swear it, swear it in hea--"

"What did he say to _that?_" asked Rotha eagerly. 

"Say! he said nothing, but he glowered at me till I thought sure hewas off again. "

"Is that all?"

"All what, Rotha?"

"They said in evidence that Ralph--it was a lie, remember--they saidthat Wilson was killed fifty yards to the north of the bridge. Now hisbody was found as far to the south of it. Robbie knows something. Ihoped to learn what he knows; but oh, everything is againstme--everything, everything. "

Rising hastily, she added, "Perhaps Robbie has gone to Carlisle. Imust be off, Liza. "

In another moment she was hurrying up the road. 

 * * * * *

Taking the high path, the girl came upon the Quaker preachers, surrounded by a knot of villagers. To avoid them she turned up anunfrequented angle of the road. There, in the recess of a gate, unseenby the worshippers, but commanding a view of them, and within hearingof all that was sung and said, stood Garth, the blacksmith. He worehis leathern apron thrown over one shoulder. This was the hour ofmid-day rest. He had not caught the sound of Rotha's light footstep asshe came up beside him. He was leaning over the gate and listeningintently. There was more intelligence and also more tenderness in hisface than Rotha had observed before. 

She paused, and seemed prompted to a nearer approach, but for themoment she held back. The worshippers began to sing a simple Quakerhymn. It spoke of pardon and peace:--

 Though your sins be red as scarlet, He shall wash them white as wool. 

Garth seemed to be touched. His hard face softened; his lips parted, and his eyes began to swim. 

When the singing ceased, he repeated the refrain beneath his breath. "What if one could but think it?" he muttered, and dropped his headinto his hands. 

Rotha stepped up and tapped his shoulder. 

"Mr. Garth, " she said. 

He started, and then struggled to hide his discomposure. There wasonly one way in which a man of his temperament and resource could hopeto do it--he snarled. 

"What do you want with me?"

"It was a beautiful hymn, " said Rotha, ignoring his question. 

"Do you think so?" he growled, and turned his head away. 

"What if one could but think it?" she said, as if speaking as much toherself as to him. 

Garth faced about, and looked at her with a scowl. 

The girl's eyes were as meek as an angel's. 

"It's what I was thinking mysel', that is, " he mumbled after a pause;then added aloud with an access of irritation, "Think what?"

"That there is pardon for us all, no matter what our sins--pardon andpeace. "

"Humph!"

"It is beautiful; religion is very beautiful, Mr. Garth. "

The blacksmith forced a short laugh. 

"You'd best go and hire yourself to the Quakers. They would welcome awoman preacher, no doubt. "

She would have bartered away years of her life at this instant for oneglimpse of what was going on in that man's heart. If she had foundcorruption there, sin and crime, she would have thanked God for it asfor manna from above. Rotha clutched the keys beneath her cloak andsubdued her anger. 

"You scarce seem yourself to-day, Mr. Garth, " she said. 

"All the better, " he replied, with a mocking laugh. "I've heard thatthey say my own sel' is a bad sel'. "

The words were hardly off his lips when he turned again sharply andfaced Rotha with an inquiring look. He had reminded himself of acommon piece of his mother's counsel; but in the first flash ofrecollection it had almost appeared to him that the words had beenRotha's, not his. 

The girl's face was as tender as a Madonna's. 

"Maybe I _am_ a little bit out of sorts to-day; maybe so. I've feltdaizt this last week end; I have, somehow. "

Rotha left him a minute afterwards. Continuing her journey, she drewthe bunch of keys from under her cloak and examined them. 

They were the same that she had found attached to Wilson's trunk onthe night of her own and Mrs. Garth's visit to the deserted cottage atFornside. There were perhaps twenty keys in all, but two only bore anysigns of recent or frequent use. One of these was marked with a crossscratched roughly on the flat of the ring. The other had a piece ofwhite tape wrapped about the shaft. The rest of the keys were worn redwith thick encrustation of rust. And now, by the power of love, thisgirl with the face of an angel in its sweetness and simplicity--thisgirl, usually as tremulous as a linnet--was about to do what a callousman might shrink from. 

She followed the pack-horse road beyond the lonnin that turned up toShoulthwaite, and stopped at the gate of the cottage that stood by thesmithy near the bridge. Without wavering for an instant, without thequivering of a single muscle, she opened the gate and walked up to thedoor. 

"Mrs. Garth, " she called. 

A young girl came out. She was a neighbor's daughter. 

"Why, she's away, Rotha, Mistress Garth is, " said the little lassie. 

"Away, Bessy?" said Rotha, entering the house and seating herself. "Doyou know where she's gone?"

"Nay, that I don't; but she told mother she'd be away three or fourdays. "

"So you're minding house for her, " said Rotha vacantly, her eyesmeantime busily traversing the kitchen; they came back to the littlehousekeeper's face in a twinkling. 

"Deary me, what a pretty ribbon that is in your hair, Bessy. Do youknow it makes you quite smart. But it wants just a little bow likethis--there, there. "

The guileless child blushed and smiled, and sidled slyly up to whereshe could catch a sidelong glance at herself in a scratched mirrorthat hung against the wall. 

"Tut, Bessy, you should go and kneel on the river bank just below, andlook at yourself in the still water. Go, lass, and come back and tellme what you think now. "

The little maiden's vanity prompted her to go, but her pride urged herto remain, lest Rotha should think her too vain. Pride conquered, andBessy hung down her pretty head and smiled. Rotha turned wearily aboutand said, "I'm very thirsty, and I can't bear that well water of Mrs. Garth's. "

"Why, she's not got a well, Rotha. "

"Hasn't she? Now, do you know, I thought she had, but it must be'Becca Rudd's well I'm thinking of. "

Bessy stepped outside for a moment, and came back with a basin ofwater in her hand. 

"What sort of water is this, Bessy--river water?" said Rothalanguidly, with eyes riveted on an oak chest that stood at one side ofthe kitchen. 

"Oh, no; spring water, " said the little one, with many protestationsof her shaking head. 

"Now, do you know, Bessy--you'll think it strange, won't you?--do youknow, I never care for spring water. "

"I'll get you a cup of milk, " said Bessy. 

"No, no; it's river water _I_ like. Just slip away and get me a cup ofit, there's a fine lass, and I'll show you how to tie the ribbon foryourself. "

The little one tripped off. Vanity reminded her that she could killtwo birds with one stone. Instantly she had gone Rotha rose to herfeet and drew out the keys. Taking the one with the tape on it, shestepped to the oak chest and tried it on the padlock that hung infront of it. No; that was not the lock it fitted. There was a cornercupboard that hung above the chest. But, no; neither had the cupboardthe lock which fitted the key in Rotha's hand. 

There was a bedroom leading out of the kitchen. Rotha entered it andlooked around. A linen trunk, a bed, and a chair were all that itcontained. She went upstairs. There were two bedrooms there, but nochest, box, cabinet, cupboard, not anything having a lock which a keylike this might fit. 

Bessy would be back soon. Rotha returned to the kitchen. She wentagain into the adjoining bedroom. Yes, under the bed was a trunk, amassive plated trunk. She tried to move it, but it would not stir. Shewent down on her knees to examine it. It had two padlocks, but neithersuited the key. Back to the kitchen, she sat down half bewildered andlooked around. 

At that instant the little one came in, with a dimple in her rosycheeks and a cup of water in her hand. 

Rotha took the water and tried to drink. 

She was defeated once more. She put the keys into her pocket. Was sheever to be one step nearer the heart of this mystery?

She rose wearily and walked out, forgetting to show the trick of thebow to the little housekeeper who stood with a rueful pout in themiddle of the floor. 

There was one thing left to do; with this other key, the key markedwith a cross, she could open Wilson's trunk in her father's cottage, look at the papers, and perhaps discover wherein lay their interestfor Mrs. Garth. But first she must examine the two places in the roadreferred to in the evidence at the trial. 

In order to do this at once, Rotha turned towards Smeathwaite when sheleft the blacksmith's cottage, and walked to the bridge. 

The river ran in a low bed, and was crossed by the road at a sharpangle. Hence the bridge lay almost out of sight of persons walkingtowards it. 

Fifty yards to the north of it was the spot where the woman Rushtonsaid she saw the murder. Fifty yards to the south of it was the spotwhere the body was picked up next morning. 

Rotha had reached the bridge, and was turning the angle of the road, when she drew hastily back. Stepping behind a bush for furtherconcealment, she waited. Some one was approaching. It was Mrs. Garth. The woman walked on until she came to within fifty paces of whereRotha stood. Then she stopped. The girl observed her movements, herself unseen. 

Mrs. Garth looked about her to the north and south of the road andacross the fields on either hand. Then she stepped into the dike andprodded the ground for some yards and kicked the stones that laythere. 

Rotha's breath came and went like a tempest. 

Mrs. Garth stooped to look closely at a huge stone that lay by thehighway. Then she picked up a smaller stone and seemed to rub it onthe larger one, as if she wished to remove a scratch or stain. 

Rotha was sure now. 

Mrs. Garth stood on the very spot where the crime was said to havebeen committed. This woman, then, and her son were at the heart of themystery. It was even as she had thought. 

Rotha could hear the beat of her own heart. She plunged from behindthe bush one step into the road. Then she drew back. 

The day was cold but dry, and Mrs. Garth heard the step in front ofher. She came walking on with apparent unconcern. Rotha thought of herfather and Ralph condemned to die as innocent men. 

The truth that would set them free lay with seething dregs offalsehood at the bottom of this woman's heart. It should come up; itshould come up. 

When Mrs. Garth had reached the bridge Rotha stepped out andconfronted her. The woman gave a little start and then a short forcedtitter. 

"Deary me, lass, ye mak a ghost of yersel', coming and going sasudden. "

"And you make ghosts of other people. " Then, without a moment'swarning, Rotha looked close into her eyes and said, "Who killed JamesWilson? Tell me quick, quick. "

Mrs. Garth flinched, and for the instant looked confused. 

"Tell me, woman, tell me; who killed him _there_--there where you'vebeen beating the ground to conceal the remaining traces of astruggle?"

"Go off and ask thy father, " said Mrs. Garth, recovering herself; andthen she added, with a sneer, "but mind thou'rt quick, or he'll nevertell thee in this world. " "Nor will you tell me in the next. Woman, woman!" cried Rotha in another tone, "woman, have you any bowels? Youhave no heart, I know; but can you stand by and be the death of twomen who have never, never done you wrong?"

Rotha clutched Mrs. Garth's dress in the agony of her appeal. 

"You have a son, too. Think of him standing where they stand, aninnocent man. "

Rotha had dropped to her knees in the road, still clinging to Mrs. Garth's dress. 

"What's all this to me, girl? Let go yer hod, do you hear? Will ye letgo? What wad I know about Wilson--nowt. "

"It's a lie, " cried Rotha, starting to her feet. "What were you doingin his room at Fornside?"

"Tush, maybe I was only seeking that fine father of thine. Let go yourhod, do you hear? Let go, or I'll--I'll--"

Rotha had dropped the woman's dress and grasped her shoulders. Inanother instant the slight pale-faced girl had pulled this brawnywoman to her knees. They were close to the parapet of the bridge, andit was but a few inches high. 

"As sure as God's in heaven, " cried Rotha with panting breath andflaming eyes, "I'll fling you into this river if you utter that lieagain. Woman, give me the truth! Cast away these falsehoods, thatwould blast the souls of the damned in hell. "

"Get off. Wilta not? Nay, then, but I'll mak thee, and quick. "

The struggle was short. The girl was flung aside into the road. 

Mrs. Garth rose from her knees with a bitter smile on her lips. "I makna doubt 'at thou wouldn't be ower keen to try the same agen, " shesaid, going off. "Go thy ways to Doomsdale, my lass, and ax yer nextbatch of questions there. I've just coom't frae it mysel', do youknow?"

Late the same evening, as the weary sun went down behind the smithy, Rotha hastened from the cottage at Fornside back to the house on theMoss at Shoulthwaite. She had a bundle of papers beneath her cloak, and the light of hope in her face. 

The clew was found. 

CHAPTER XLV. THE CONDEMNED IN DOOMSDALE. 

When Ralph, accompanied by Sim, arrived at Carlisle and surrenderedhimself to the high sheriff, Wilfrey Lawson, he was at once takenbefore the magistrates, and, after a brief examination, was ordered towait his trial at the forthcoming assizes. He was then committed tothe common gaol, which stood in the ruins of the old convent of BlackFriars. The cell he occupied was shared by two other prisoners--a manand a woman. It was a room of small dimensions, down a small flight ofsteps from the courtyard, noisome to the only two senses to which itappealed--gloomy and cold. It was entered from a passage in an outercell, and the doors to both were narrow, without so much as theventilation of an eye-hole, strongly bound with iron, and doublelocked. The floor was the bare earth, and there was no furnitureexcept such as the prisoners themselves provided. A little window nearto the ceiling admitted all the light and air and discharged all thefoul vapor that found entrance and egress. 

The prisoners boarded themselves. For an impost of 7s per week, anunder gaoler undertook to provide food for Ralph and to lend him amattress. His companions in this wretched plight were a miserable pairwho were suspected of a barbarous and unnatural murder. They had beenparamours, and their victim had been the woman's husband. Once andagain they had been before the judges, and though none doubted theirguilt, they had been sent back to await more conclusive or morecircumstantial evidence. Whatever might hitherto have been the ardorof their guilty passion, their confinement together in this foul cellhad resulted in a mutual loathing. Within the narrow limits of thesewalls neither seemed able to support the barest contact with theother. They glared at each other in the dim light with ghoul-likeeyes, and at night they lay down at opposite sides of the floor onbundles of straw for beds. This straw, having served them in theirpoverty for weeks and even months, had fermented and become filthy anddamp. 

Such was the place and such the society in which Ralph spent the sevendays between the day on which he surrendered and that on which he wasindicted for treason. 

The little window looked out into the streets, and once or twice dailySimeon Stagg, who discovered the locality of Ralph's confinement, cameand exchanged some words of what were meant for solace with hisfriend. It was small comfort Ralph found in the daily sight of thepoor fellow's sorrowful face; but perhaps Ralph's own brightercountenance and cheerier tone did something for the comforter himself. 

Though the two unhappy felons were made free of the spacious courtyardfor an hour every day, the like privilege was not granted to Ralph, who was kept close prisoner, and, except on the morning of his trial, was even denied water for washing and cleansing. 

When he was first to appear before the judges of assize, this prisonerof state, who had voluntarily surrendered himself, after manyunsuccessful efforts at capturing him, was bound hand and foot. On thehearing of his case being adjourned, he was taken back to the cellwhich he had previously shared; but whether he felt that the unhappycompany was more than he could any longer support, or whether the foulatmosphere of the stinking room seemed the more noisome from thecomparative respite of a crowded court, he determined to endure theplace no longer. He asked to be permitted to write to the governor ofthe city. The request was not granted. Then, hailing Sim from thestreet, he procured by his assistance a bundle of straw and a candle. The straw, clean and sweet, he exchanged with his fellow-prisoners forthat which had served them for beds. Then, gathering the rotten stuffinto a heap in the middle of the floor, he put a light to it andstirred it into a fire. This was done partly to clear the foulatmosphere, which was so heavy and dank as to gather into beads ofmoisture on the walls, and partly to awaken the slugglish interest ofthe head gaoler, whose rooms, as Ralph had learned, were situatedimmediately above this cell. The former part of the artifice failed(the filthy straw engendered as much stench as it dissipated), but thelatter part of it succeeded effectually. The smoke found its way wherethe reeking vapor which was natural to the cell could not penetrate. 

Ralph was removed forthwith to the outer room. But for the improvementin his lodgings he was punished indirectly. Poor Sim had dislocated abar of the window in pushing the straw into Ralph's hands, and forthis offence he was apprehended and charged with prison breaking. Fourdays later the paltry subterfuge was abandoned, as we know, for a moreserious indictment. Ralph's new abode was brighter and warmer than theold one, and had no other occupant. Here he passed the second week ofhis confinement. The stone walls of this cell had a melancholyinterest. They were carved over nearly every available inch withfigures of men, birds, and animals, cut, no doubt, by the formerprisoners to beguile the weary hours. 

In these quarters life was at least tolerable; but tenancy of sohabitable a place was not long to be Ralph's portion. 

When the trial for murder had ended in condemnation, Ralph and Simwere removed from the bar, not to the common gaol from whence theycame, but to the castle, and were there committed to a pestilentialdungeon under the keep. This dungeon was known as Doomsdale. It wasindeed a "seminary of every vice and of every disease. " Many a leanand yellow culprit, it was said, had carried up from its reeking floorinto the court an atmosphere of pestilence which avenged him on hisaccusers. Some affirmed that none who ever entered it came out andlived. The access to it was down a long flight of winding stairs, andthrough a cleft hewn out of the bare rock on which the castle stood. It was wet with the waters that oozed out of countless fissures andcame up from the floor and stood there in pools of mire that wereankle deep. 

Ralph was scarcely the man tamely to endure a horrible den like this. Once again he demanded to see the governor, but was denied thatjustice. 

As a prisoner condemned to die, he, with Sim, was allowed to attendservice daily in the chapel of the castle. The first morning of hisimprisonment in this place he availed himself of the privilege. Crossing the castle green towards the chapel, he attempted to approachthe governor's quarters, but the guard interposed. Throughout theservice he was watchful of any opportunity that might arise, but noneappeared. At the close he was being taken back to Doomsdale, side byside with his companion, when he saw the chaplain, in his surplice, crossing the green to his rooms. Then, at a sudden impulse, Ralphpushed aside the guard, and, tapping the clergyman on the shoulder, called on him to stop and listen. 

"We are condemned men, " he said; "and if the law takes its course, insix days we are to die; but in less time than that we will be deadalready if they keep us in that hell on earth. "

The chaplain stared at Ralph's face with a look compounded equally ofamazement and fear. 

"Take him away, " he cried nervously to the guard, who had now regainedpossession of their prisoner. 

"You are a minister of the Gospel, " said Ralph. 

"Your servant, " said the clergyman, with mock humility. 

"My servant, indeed!" said Ralph; "my servant before God, yet bewareof hypocrisy. You are a Christian minister, and you read in your Bibleof the man who was cast into a lion's den, and of the three men whowere thrown into the fiery furnace. But what den of lions was ever sodeadly as this, where no fire would burn in the pestilential air?"

"He is mad, " cried the chaplain, sidling off; "look at his eyes. " Theguard were making futile efforts to hurry Ralph away, but he shoutedagain, in a voice that echoed through the court, --

"You are a Christian minister, and your Master sent his disciples overall the earth without purse or scrip, but you lie here in luxury, while we die there in disease. Look to it, man, look to it! Areckoning day is at hand as sure as the same God is over us all!"

"The man is mad and murderous!" cried the affrighted chaplain. "Takehim away. "

Not waiting for his order to be executed, the spick-and-span wearer ofthe unsoiled surplice disappeared into one of the side rooms of thecourt. 

This extraordinary scene might have resulted in a yet more rigoroustreatment of the prisoners, but it produced the opposite effect. Within the same hour Ralph and Sim were removed from Doomsdale andimprisoned in a room high up in the Donjon tower. 

Their new abode was in every way more tolerable than the old one. Ithad no fire, and it enjoyed the questionable benefit of beingconstantly filled with nearly all the smoke of every fire beneath it. The dense clouds escaped in part through a hole in the wall where astone had been disturbed. This aperture also served the less desirablepurpose of admitting the rain and the wind. 

Here the days were passed. They were few and short. Doomsdale itselfcould not have made them long. 

With his long streaky hair hanging wild about his temples, Sim sathour after hour on a low bench beneath the window, crying at intervalsthat God would not let them die. 

CHAPTER XLVI. THE SKEIN UNRAVELLED. 

It was Thursday when they were condemned, and the sentence was to becarried into effect on the Thursday following. Saturday, Sunday, andMonday passed by without any event of consequence. On Tuesday theunder gaoler opened the door of their prison, and the sheriff entered. Ralph stepped out face to face with him. Sim crept closer into theshadow. 

"The King's warrant has arrived, " he said abruptly. 

"And is this all you come to tell us?" said Ralph, no less curtly. 

"Ray, there is no love between you and me, and we need dissemblenone. "

"And no hate--at least on my part, " Ralph added. 

"I had good earnest of your affections, " answered the sheriff with asneer; "five years' imprisonment. " Then waving his hand with a gestureindicative of impatience, he continued, "Let that be as it may. I cometo talk of other matters. "

Resting on a bench, he added, --

"When the trial closed on Thursday, Justice Hide, who showed you morefavor than seemed to some persons of credit to be meet and seemly, beckoned me to the antechamber. There he explained that the evidenceagainst you being mainly circumstantial, the sentence might perchance, by the leniency of the King, be commuted to one of imprisonment forlife. "

A cold smile passed over Ralph's face. 

"But this great mercy--whereof I would counsel you to cherish nocertain hope--would depend upon your being able and willing to renderan account of how you came by the document--the warrant for your ownarrest--which was found upon your person. Furnish a credible story ofhow you came to be possessed, of that instrument, and it may occur--Isay it _may_ occur--that by our Sovereign's grace and favor thissentence of death can yet be put aside. "

Sim had risen to his feet in obvious excitement. 

Ralph calmly shook his head. 

"I neither will nor can, " he said emphatically. 

Sim sank back into his seat. 

A look of surprise in the sheriff's face quickly gave way to a look ofcontent and satisfaction. 

"We know each other of old, and I say there is no love between us, " heobserved, "but it is by no doing of mine that you are here. Nevertheless, your response to this merciful tender shows but tooplainly how well you merit your position. "

"It took you five days to bring it--this merciful tender, as you termit, " said Ralph. 

"The King is now at Newcastle, and there at this moment is alsoJustice Hide, in whom, had you been an innocent man, you must havefound an earnest sponsor. I bid you good day. "

The sheriff rose, and, bowing to the prisoner with a ridiculousaffectation of mingled deference and superiority, he stepped to thedoor. 

"Stop, " said Ralph: "you say we know each other of old. That is false!To this hour you have never known, nor do you know now, why I standhere condemned to die, and doomed by a harder fate to take the life ofthis innocent old man. You have never known me: no, nor yourselfneither--never! But you shall know both before you leave this room. Sit down. "

"I have no time to waste in idle disputation, " said the sherifftestily; but he sat down, nevertheless, at his prisoner's bidding, asmeekly as if the positions had been reversed. 

"That scar across your brow. " said Ralph, "you have carried since theday I have now to speak of. "

"You know it well, " said the sheriff bitterly. "You have cause to knowit. "

"I have, " Ralph answered. 

After a pause, in which he was catching the thread of a story halfforgotten, he continued: "You said I supplanted you in your captaincy. Pehaps so; perhaps not. God will judge between us. You went over tothe Royalist camp, and you were among the garrison that had reducedthis very castle. The troops of the Parliament came up one day andsummoned you to surrender. The only answer your general gave us was toorder the tunnel guns to fire on the white flag. It went down. We layentrenched about you for six days. Then you sent out a dispatchassuring us that your garrison was well prepared for a siege, and thatnothing would prevail with you to open your gates. That was a lie!"

"Well?"

"Your general lied; the man who carried your general's dispatch was aliar too, but he told the truth for a bribe. "

"Ah! then the saints were not above warming the palm?"

"He assured our commander we might expect a mutiny in your city if wecontinued before it one day longer; that your castle was garrisonedonly by a handful of horse, and two raw, undisciplined regiments ofmilitia; that even from these desertions occurred hourly, and thatsome of your companies were left with only a score of men. This was atnight, and we were under an order to break up next morning. That orderwas countermanded. Your messenger was sent back the richer by twentypounds. "

"How does this concern me?" asked the sheriff. 

"You shall hear. I had been on the outposts that night, and, returningto the camp, I surprised two men robbing, beating, and, as I thought, murdering a third. One of the vagabonds escaped undetected, but with ablow from the butt of my musket which he will carry to his grave. Theother I thrashed on the spot. He was the bailiff Scroope, whom you putup to witness against me. Their victim was the messenger from thecastle, and he was James Wilson, otherwise Wilson Garth. You knowthis? No? Then listen. Rumor of his treachery, and of the price he hadbeen paid for it, had already been bruited abroad, and the twoscoundrels had gone out to waylay and rob him. He was lamed in thestruggle and faint from loss of blood. I took him back and bound uphis wound. He limped to the end of his life. "

"Still I fail to see how this touches myself, " interrupted thesheriff. 

"Really? I shall show you. Next morning, under cover of a thick fog, we besieged the city. We got beneath your guns and against your gatesbefore we were seen. Then a company of horse came out to us. _You_were there. You remember it? Yes? At one moment we came within fouryards. I saw you struck down and reel out of the saddle. 'This man, ' Ithought, 'believes in his heart that I did him a grievous wrong. Ishall now do him a signal service, though he never hear of it untilthe Judgment Day. ' I dismounted, lifted you up, bound a kerchief aboutyour head, and was about to replace you on your horse. At that instanta musket-shot struck the poor beast, and it fell dead. At the sameinstant one of our own men fell, and his riderless horse was prancingaway. I caught it, threw you on to its back, turned his head towardsthe castle, and drove it hard among your troops. Do you know whathappened next?"

"Happened next--" repeated the sheriff mechanically, with astonishmentwritten on every feature of his face. 

"No, you were insensible, " continued Ralph. "At that luckless momentthe drum beat to arms in a regiment of foot behind us. The horse knewthe call and answered it. Wheeling about, it carried you into theheart of our own camp. There you were known, tried as a deserter, andimprisoned. Perhaps it was natural that you should set down your illfortune to me. "

The sheriff's eyes were riveted on Ralph's face, and for a time heseemed incapable of speech. 

"Is this truth?" he asked at length. 

"God's truth, " Ralph answered. 

"The kerchief--what color was it?"

"Yellow. "

"Any name or mark on it? I have it to this day. "

"None--wait; there was a rose pricked out in worsted on one corner. "

The sheriff got up, with lips compressed and wide eyes. He made forthe door, and pulled at it with wasted violence. It was opened fromthe other side by the under gaoler, and the sheriff rushed out. 

Without turning to the right or left, he went direct to the commongaol. There, in the cell which Ralph had occupied between the firsttrial and the second one, Mark Garth, the perjurer, lay imprisoned. 

"You hell-hound, " cried the sheriff, grasping him by the hair anddragging him into the middle of the floor. "I have found out yourdevilish treachery, " he said, speaking between gusts of breath. "Didyou not tell me that it was Ray who struck me this blow--this"(beating with his palm the scar on his brow)? "It was a lie--a damnedlie!"

"It was, " said the man, glaring back, with eyes afire with fury. 

"And did you not say it was Ray who carried me into their camp--aninsensible prisoner?"

"That was a lie also, " the man gasped, never struggling to releasehimself from the grip that held him on the floor. 

"And did you not set me on to compass the death of this man, but forwhom I should now myself be dead?"

"You speak with marvellous accuracy, Master Lawson, " returned theperjurer. 

The sheriff looked down at him for a moment, and then flung him away. 

"Man, man! do you know what you have done?" he cried in an alteredtone. "You have charged my soul with your loathsome crime. "

The perjurer curled his lip. 

"It was _I_ who gave you that blow, " he said, with a cruel smile, pointing with his thin finger at the sheriff's forehead. It was false. 

"You devil!" cried the sheriff, "and you have killed the man who savedyour brother's life, and consorted with one of two who would have beenhis murderers. "

"I was myself the second, " said the man, with fiendish calmness. Itwas the truth. "I carry the proof of it here, " he added, touching aplace at the back of his head where the hair, being shorn away, disclosed a deep mark. 

The sheriff staggered back with frenzied eyes and dilated nostrils. His breast heaved; he seemed unable to catch his breath. 

The man looked at him with a mocking smile struggling over clinchedteeth. As if a reptile had crossed his path, Wilfrey Lawson turnedabout and passed out without another word. 

He returned to the castle and ascended the Donjon tower. 

"Tell me how you became possessed of the warrant, " he said. "Tell me, I beg of you, for my soul's sake as well as for your life's sake. "

Ralph shook his head. 

"It is not even yet too late. I shall take horse instantly forNewcastle. "

Sim had crept up, and, standing behind Ralph, was plucking at hisjerkin. 

Ralph turned about and looked wistfully into the old man's face. Foran instant his purpose wavered. 

"For the love of God, " cried the sheriff, "for your own life's sake, for this poor man's sake, by all that is near and dear to both, Icharge you, if you are an innocent man, give me the means to prove yousuch. "

But again Ralph shook his head. 

"Then you are resolved to die?"

"Yes! But for my old friend here--save him if you will and can. "

"You will give me no word as to the warrant?"

"None. "

"Then all is over. "

But going at once to the stables in the courtyard, he called to astableman, --

"Saddle a horse and bring it round to my quarters in half an hour. "

In less time than that Wilfrey Lawson was riding hard towardsNewcastle. 

CHAPTER XLVII. THE BLACK CAMEL AT THE GATE. 

Next morning after Rotha's struggle with Mrs. Garth at the bridge, therumor passed through Wythburn that the plague was in the district. Since the advent of the new preachers the people had seen the dreadedscourge dangling from the sleeve of every stranger who came from thefearsome world without. They had watched for the fatal symptoms: theyhad waited for them: they had invited them. Every breeze seemed to befreighted with the plague wind; every harmless ailment seemed to bethe epidemic itself. 

Not faith in the will of God, not belief in destiny, not fortitude orfatalism, not unselfishness or devil-may-care indifference, had savedthe people from the haunting dread of being mown down by the unseenand insidious foe. 

And now in very truth the plague seemed to have reached their doors. It was at the cottage by the smithy. Rumor said that Mrs. Garth hadbrought it with her from Carlisle, but it was her son who was strickendown. 

The blacksmith had returned home soon after Rotha had left him. Hismother was there, and she talked to him of what she had heard of theplague. This was in order to divert his attention from the subjectthat she knew to be uppermost in his thoughts--the trial, and what hadcome of it. She succeeded but too well. 

Garth listened in silence, and then slunk off doggedly to the smithy. 

"I'm scarce well enough for work to-day, " he said, coming back in halfan hour. 

His mother drew the settle to the fire, and fixed the cushions that hemight lie and rest. 

But no rest was to be his. He went back to the anvil and worked tillthe perspiration dripped from his forehead. Then he returned to thehouse. 

"My mouth is parched to-day, somehow, " he said; "did you say a parchedmouth was a sign?"

"Shaf, lad! thou'rt hot wi' thy wark. "

Garth went back once more to the smithy, and, writhing under thetorture of suspense, he worked until the very clothes he wore weremoist to the surface. Then he went into the house again. 

"How my brain throbs!" he said; "surely you said the throbbing brainwas a sign, mother; and my brain _does_ throb. "

"Tut, tut! it's nobbut some maggot thou's gitten intil it. "

"My pulse, too, it gallops, mother. You said the galloping pulse was asign. Don't say you did not. I'm sure of it, I'm sure of it; and _my_pulse gallops. I could bear the parched mouth and the throbbing brainif this pulse did not run so fast. "

"Get away wi' thee, thou dummel-heed. What fagot has got hold on thyfancy now?"

There was only the swollen gland wanted to make the dread symptomscomplete. 

Garth went back to the anvil once more. His eyes rolled in his head. They grew as red as the iron that he was welding. He swore at the boywho helped him, and struck him fiercely. He shouted frantically, andflung away the hammer at every third blow. The boy slunk off, and wenthome affrighted. At a sudden impulse, Garth tore away the shirt fromhis breast, and thrust his left hand beneath his right arm. With thatthe suspense was ended. A mood of the deepest sadness and dejectionsupervened. Shuddering in every limb beneath all his perspiration, theblacksmith returned for the last time to the house. 

"I wouldn't mind the parched mouth and the throbbing brain; no, northe galloping pulse, mother; but oh, mother, mother, the gland, it'sswelled; ey, ey, it's swelled. I'm doomed, I'm doomed. No use sayingno. I'm a dead man, that's the truth, that's the truth, mother. "

And then the disease, whether plague or other fever, passed its fieryhand over the throbbing brain of the blacksmith, and he was put to bedraving. 

Little Betsy, like the boy in the smithy, stole away to her own homewith ghastly stories of the blacksmith's illness and delirium. 

At first the neighbors came to inquire, prompted partly by curiosity, but mainly by fear. Mrs. Garth shut the door, and refused to open itto any comers. 

To enforce seclusion was not long a necessity. Desertion was soon theportion of the Garths, mother and son. More swift than a bad namepassed the terrible conviction among the people at Wythburn that atlast, at long last, the plague, the plague itself, was in their midst. 

The smithy cottage stood by the bridge, and to reach the market townby the road it was necessary to pass it within five yards. Pitiful, indeed, were the artifices to escape contagion resorted to by some whoprofessed the largest faith in the will of God. They condemnedthemselves to imprisonment within their own houses, or abandoned theirvisits to Gaskarth, or made a circuit of a mile across the breast of ahill, in order to avoid coming within range of the proscribeddwelling. 

After three days of rumor and surmise, there was not a soul in thedistrict would go within fifty yards of the house that was believed tohold the pestilence. No doctor approached it, for none had beensummoned. The people who brought provisions left them in the roadoutside, and hailed the inmates. Mrs. Garth sat alone with herstricken son, and if there had been eyes to see her there in hersolitude and desolation, perhaps the woman who seemed hard as flint tothe world was softening in her sorrow. When the delirium passed away, and Garth lay conscious, but still feverish, his mother was bewailingtheir desertion. 

"None come nigh to us, Joey, none come nigh. That's what the worth ofneighbors is, my lad. They'd leave us to die, both on us; they'd leaveus alone to die, and none wad come nigh. "

"Alone, mother! Did you say alone?" asked Garth. 

"We're not alone, mother. Some one _has_ come nigh to us. "

Mrs. Garth looked up amazed, and half turned in her seat to glancewatchfully around. 

"Mother, " said Garth, "did you ever pray?"

"Hod thy tongue, lad, hod thy tongue, " said Mrs. Garth, with awhimper. 

"Did you ever pray, mother?" repeated Garth, his red eyes aflame, andhis voice cracking in his throat. "Whisht, Joey, whisht!"

"Mother, we've not lived over well, you and I; but maybe God wouldforgive us, after all. "

"Hod thy tongue, my lad; do, now, do. "

Mrs. Garth fumbled with the bedclothes, and tucked them about thesufferer. 

Her son turned his face full upon hers, and their eyes met. 

"Dunnet look at me like that, " she said, trying to escape his gaze. "What's comin' ower thee, my lad, that thou looks so, and talks so?"

"What's coming over me, mother? Shall I tell thee? It's Death that'scoming over me; that's what it is, mother--Death!"

"Dunnet say that, Joey. "

The old woman threw her apron over her head and sobbed. 

Garth looked at her, with never a tear in his wide eyes. 

"Mother, " said the poor fellow again in his weak, crackedvoice, --"mother, did you ever pray?"

Mrs. Garth uncovered her head. Her furrowed face was wet. She rockedherself and moaned. 

"Ey, lad, I mind that I did when I was a wee bit of a girl. I had rosycheeks then, and my own auld mother wad kiss me then. Ey, it's true. We went to church on a Sunday mornin' and all the bells ringin'. Ey, Imind that, but it's a wa', wa' off, my lad, it's a wa', wa' off. "

The day was gaunt and dreary. Toward nightfall the wind arose, andsometimes its dismal wail seemed to run around the house. The river, too, now swollen and turbulent, that flowed beneath the neighboringbridge, added its voice of lamentation as it wandered on and on to theocean far away. 

In the blacksmith's cottage another wanderer was journeying yet fasterto a more distant ocean. The darkness closed in. Garth was tossing onhis bed. His mother was rocking herself at his side. All else wasstill. 

Then a step was heard on the shingle without, and a knock came to thedoor. The blacksmith struggled to lift his head and listen. Mrs. Garthpaused in her rocking and ceased to moan. 

"Who ever is it?" whispered Garth. 

"Let them stay where they are, whoever it be, " his mother mumbled, never shifting from her seat. The knock came again. 

"Nay, mother, nay; it is too late to--"

He had said no more when the latch was lifted, and Rotha Stagg walkedinto the room. 

"I've come to help to nurse you, if you please, " she said, addressingthe sick man. 

Garth looked steadily at her for a moment, every feature quivering. Shame, fear, horror--any sentiment but welcome--was written on hisface. Then he straggled to twist his poor helpless body away; hishead, at least, he turned from her to the wall. 

"It wad look better of folk if they'd wait till they're axt, " mutteredMrs. Garth, with downcast eyes. 

Rotha unpinned the shawls that had wrapped her from the cold, andthrew them over a chair. She stirred the fire and made it burnbrightly; there was no other light in the room. The counterpane, whichhad been dragged away in the restlessness of the sufferer, she spreadafresh. Reaching over the bed, she raised the sick man's head tenderlyon her arm while she beat out his pillow. Never once did he lift hiseyes to hers. 

Mrs. Garth still rocked herself in her seat. "Folks should wait tillthey're wanted, " she mumbled again; but the words broke down into astifled sob. 

Rotha lit a candle that stood at hand, went to the cupboard in thecorner of the adjoining kitchen, and took out a jar of barley; then tothe hearth and took up a saucepan. In two minutes she was boilingsomething on the fire. 

Mrs. Garth was following every movement with watchful eyes. 

Presently the girl came to the bedside again with a basin in her hand. 

"Take a little of this, Mr. Garth, " she said. "Your mouth is parched. "

"How did you know that?" he muttered, lifting his eyes at last. 

She made no reply, but held her cool hand to his burning forehead. Hemotioned to her to draw it away. She did so. 

"It's not safe--it's not safe for you, girl, " he said in his thinwhisper, his breath coming and going between every word. 

She smiled, put back her hand and brushed the dank hair from his moistbrow. 

Mrs. Garth got up from her seat by the bedside and hobbled to thefire. There she sat on a low stool, and threw her apron over her head. 

Again raising the blacksmith from his pillow, Rotha put a spoonful ofbarley-water to his withered lips. He was more docile than a childnow, and let her have her will. 

For a moment he looked at her with melancholy eyes, and then, shiftinghis gaze, he said, --

"You had troubles enow of your own, Rotha, without coming to shareours--mother's and mine. "

"Yes, " she answered, and a shadow crossed the cheerful face. 

"Will they banish him?" he said with quick-coming breath. "Mother saysso; will they banish him from the country?"

"Yes, perhaps; but it will be to another and a better country, " saidRotha, and dropped her head. 

Garth glanced inquiringly into her face. His mother shifted on herstool. 

"How, how?" he said, nervously clutching at the bedclothes. 

"Why do you bother him, girl?" said Mrs. Garth, turning about. "Restthee, my lad, rest thee still. "

"Mother, " said Garth, drawing back his head, but never shifting thedetermination of his gaze from Rotha's face, "what does she mean?"

"Haud thy tongue, Joey. "

"What does she mean, mother?"

"Whisht! Never heed folks that meddle afore they're axt. "

Mrs. Garth spoke peevishly, rose from her seat, and walked betweenRotha and the bed. 

Garth's wide eyes were still riveted on the girl's face. 

"Never mind that she's not asked, " he said; "but what does she mean, mother? What lie is it that she comes to tell us!"

"No lie, Mr. Garth, " said Rotha, with tearful eyes. "Ralph and fatherare condemned to die, and they are innocent. "

"Tush! get away wi' thee!" mumbled Mrs. Garth, brushing the girl asidewith her elbow. The blacksmith glared at her, and seemed to gasp forbreath. 

"It _is_ a lie; mother, tell her it _is_ a lie. "

"God knows it is not, " cried Rotha passionately. 

"Say I believed it, " said Garth, rising convulsively on one elbow, with a ghastly stare; "say I believed that the idiots had condemnedthem to death for a crime they never committed--never; say I believedit--but it's a lie, that's what it is. Girl, girl, how can you comewith a lie on your lips to a poor dying man? Cruel! cruel! Have you nopity, none, for a wretched dying man?"

The tears rolled down Rotha's cheeks. Mrs. Garth returned to herstool, and rocked herself and moaned. 

The blacksmith glared from one to the other, the sweat standing inheavy beads on his forehead. 

Then an awful scream burst from his lips. His face was horriblydistorted. 

"It is true, " he cried, and fell back and rolled on the bed. 

All that night the fiery hand lay on the blacksmith's brain, and hetossed in a wild delirium. 

The wind's wail ran round the house, and the voice of that brotherwanderer, the river beneath the bridge crept over the silence when thesufferer lay quiet and the wind was still. 

No candle was now lighted, but the fire on the hearth burnt bright. Mrs. Garth sat before it, hardly once glancing up. 

Again and again her son cried to her with the yearning cry of a littlechild. At such times the old woman would shrink within herself, andmoan and cower over the fire, and smoke a little black pipe. 

Hour after hour the blacksmith rolled in his bed in a madness tooterrible to record. The memory of his blasphemies seemed to come backupon him in his raving, and add fresh agony to his despair. 

A naked soul stood face to face with the last reality, battlingmeantime, with an unseen foe. There was to be no jugglery now. 

Oh! that awful night, that void night, that night of the wind's wailand the dismal moan of the wandering river, and the frequent cry of apoor, miserable, desolate, despairing, naked soul! Had its black wingssettled forever over all the earth?

No. The dawn came at last. Its faint streak of light crept lazily inat the curtainless window. 

Then Garth raised himself in his bed. 

"Give me paper--paper and a pen--quick, quick!" he cried. 

"What would you write, Joe?" said Rotha. 

"I want to write to him--to Ralph--Ralph Ray, " he said, in a voicequite unlike his own. 

Rotha ran to the chest in the kitchen and opened it. In a side shelfpens were there and paper too. She came back, and put them before thesick man. 

But he was unconscious of what she had done. 

She looked into his face. His eyes seemed not to see. 

"The paper and pen!" he cried again, yet more eagerly. 

She put the quill into his hand and spread the paper before him. 

"What writing is this, " he cried, pointing to the white sheet; "thiswriting in red?"

"Where?"

"Here--everywhere. "

The pen dropped from his nerveless fingers. 

"To think they will take a dying man!" he said. "You would scarcethink they would have the heart, these people. You would scarce thinkit, would you?" he said, lifting his poor glassy eyes to Rotha's face. 

"Perhaps they don't know, " she answered soothingly, and tried toreplace him on his pillow. 

"That's true, " he muttered; "perhaps they don't know how ill I am. "

At that instant he caught sight of his mother's ill-shapen figurecowering over the fire. Clutching Rotha's arm with one hand, hepointed at his mother with the other, and said, with an access ofstrength, --

"I've found her out; I've found her out. "

Then he laughed till it seemed to Rotha that the blood stood still inher heart. 

When the full flood of daylight streamed into the little room, Garthhad sunk into a deep sleep. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. "OUT, OUT, BRIEF CANDLE. "

As the clock struck eight Rotha drew her shawls about her shouldersand hurried up the road. 

At the turning of the lonnin to Shoulthwaite she met Willy Ray. "I wascoming to meet you, " he said, approaching. 

"Come no closer, " said Rotha, thrusting out the palm of one hand; "youknow where I've been--there, that is near enough. "

"Nonsense, Rotha!" said Willy, stepping up to her and putting a handon her arm. There was confidence in the touch. 

"To-morrow is the day, " Willy added, in an altered tone. "I am leavingfor Carlisle at noon--that is, in four hours. "

"Could you not wait four hours longer?" said Rotha. 

"I could if you wish it; but why?"

"I don't know--that is, I can't say--but wait until four o'clock, Ibeg of you. "

The girl spoke with deep earnestness. 

"I shall wait, " said Willy, after a pause. 

"And you'll meet me at the bridge by the smithy?" said Rotha. 

Willy nodded assent. 

"At four precisely, " he said. 

"This is all I came to ask. I must go back. "

"Rotha, a word: what is your interest in these Garths? Does it concernyour father and Ralph?"

"I'll tell you at the bridge, " said Rotha, sidling off. 

"Every one is aghast at your going, " he said. 

"I have better reasons than any one knows of, " she replied. 

"And better faith, and a nobler heart, " he added feelingly as heturned his head away. 

Garth was still asleep when she got back to the cottage. A feeblegleam of winter sunshine came languidly through the little window. Itfell across the bed and lit up the blue eyelids and discolored lips ofthe troubled sleeper. 

The fire had smouldered out. Only a charred bough and a damp clod ofpeat lay black among the gray ashes on the hearth. 

As Rotha re-entered Mrs. Garth got up from the stool on which she hadsat the long night through. There was a strange look on her face. During the heavy hours she had revolved within herself a dark problemwhich to her was unsolvable, and the puzzle was still printed on herface. Drawing the girl aside, she said in a grating whisper, --

"Tell me, do ye think it's reet what the lad says?"

"About Ralph and father?" asked Rotha. 

"Tush! about hissel'. Do ye think he'll die?"

Rotha dropped her head. 

"Tell me: do ye think so?"

Rotha was still silent. Mrs. Garth looked searchingly into her face, and in answer to the unuttered reply, she whispered vehemently, --

"It's a lie. He'll be back at his anvil to-morrow. Why do you come wi'yer pale face to me? Crying? What's it for? tell me!"

And the old woman shook the girl roughly by the shoulders. 

Rotha made no response. The puzzled expression on Mrs. Garth's facedeepened at that instant, but as she turned aside she muttered again, with every accent of determination, --

"He'll be back at his anvil to-morrow, that he will. "

The blacksmith awoke as serene as a child. When he looked at Rotha hishard, drawn face softened to the poor semblance of a smile. Then ashadow crossed it, and once more he turned his head to the wall. 

And now to Rotha the hours went by with flying feet. Every hour ofthem was as precious to her as her heart's blood. How few were thehours of morning! The thing which above all she came here to do wasnot being done. A dull dead misery seemed to sit cold on her soul. 

Rotha tended the sufferer with anxious care, and when the fitful sleepslid over him, she sat motionless with folded hands, and gazed throughthe window. All was still, sombre, chill, and dreary. The wind hadslackened; the river ran smoother. In a field across the valley awoman was picking potatoes. No other human creature was visible. 

Thus the hours wore on. At one moment Garth awoke with a troubledlook, and glanced watchfully around. His mother was sitting in heraccustomed seat, apparently asleep. He clutched at Rotha's gown, andmade a motion to her to come closer. She did so, a poor breath of hopefluttering in her breast. But just then Mrs. Garth shifted in herseat, and faced about towards them. The blacksmith drew back his hand, and dropped his half-lifted head. 

Towards noon Mrs. Garth got up and left the bedroom. Her son hadappeared to be asleep but he was alert to every movement. Again heplucked Rotha's gown, and essayed to speak. But Mrs. Garth returned ina moment, and not a word was said. 

Rotha's spirits flagged. It was as though she were crawling hour afterhour towards a gleam of hope that fled farther and farther away. 

The darkness was gathering in, yet nothing was done. Then the clockstruck four, and Rotha drew on her shawl once more, and walked to thebridge. 

Willy was there, a saddled horse by his side. 

"You look jaded and out of heart, Rotha, " he said. 

"Can you stay four hours longer?" she asked. 

"Until eight o'clock? It will make the night ride cold and long, " heanswered. 

"True, but you can stay until eight, can you not?"

"You know why I go. God knows it is not to be present at that lastscene of all: that will be soon after daybreak. "

"You want to see him again. Yes; but stay until eight o'clock. I wouldnot make an idle request, Willy. No, not at a solemn hour like this. "

"I shall stay, " he said. 

The girl's grief-worn face left no doubt in his mind of her purpose. They parted. 

When Rotha re-entered the sick-room a candle was burning on a table bythe bedside. Mrs. Garth still crouched before the fire. The blacksmithwas awake. As he lifted his eyes to Rotha's face, the girl saw thatthey wore the same watchful and troubled expression as before. 

"Shall I read to you, Mr. Garth?" she asked, taking down from a shelfnear the rafters a big leather-bound book. It was a Bible, dust-covered and with rusty clasps, which had lain untouched foryears. 

"Rotha, " said Garth, "read to me where it tells of sins that are asscarlet being washed whiter nor wool. "

The girl found the place. She read aloud in the rich, soft voice thatwas like the sigh of the wind through the long grass. The words mighthave brought solace to another man. The girl's voice might have restedon the ear as a cool hand rests on a throbbing brow. But neither wordsnor voice brought peace to Garth. His soul seemed to heave like a sealashed by a storm. 

At length he reached out a feeble hand and touched the hand of thegirl. 

"I have a sin that is red as scarlet, " he said. But before he couldsay more, his mother had roused herself and turned to him with whatRotha perceived to be a look of warning. 

It was plainly evident that but for Mrs. Garth, the blacksmith wouldmake that confession which she wished above all else to hear. 

Then Rotha read again. She read of the prodigal son, and of Him whowould not condemn the woman that was a sinner. It was a solemn andterrible moment. The fathomless depths of the girl's voice, breakingonce and again to a low wail, then rising to a piercing cry, went withthe words themselves like an arrow to the heart of the dying man. Still no peace came to him. Chill was the inmost chamber of his soul;no fire was kindled there. His face was veiled in a troubledseriousness, when, at a pause in the reading, he said, --

"There can be no rest for me, Rotha, till I tell you something thatlies like iron at my heart. "

"Whisht thee, lad; whisht thee and sleep. Thou'rt safe to be wellto-morrow, " said Mrs. Garth in a peevish whimper. 

"Mother, mother, " cried Garth aloud in a piteous tone of appeal andremonstrance, "when, when will you see me as I am?"

"Tush, lad! thou'rt mending fast. Thou'rt safe to be at thy fireto-morrow. "

"Ey, mother, " replied the blacksmith, lifting himself feebly andglaring at her now with a fierce light in his eyes, --"eh, mother, butit will be the everlasting fire if I'm to die with this black sinheavy on my soul. "

In spite of her self-deception, the woman's mind had long been busywith its own secret agony, and at these words from her son the rigidwrinkles of her face relaxed, and she turned her head once more aside. 

Rotha felt that the moment had at length arrived. She must speak nowor never. The one hope for two innocent men who were to die as soon asthe world woke again to daylight lay in this moment. 

"Mr. Garth, " she began falteringly, "if a sin lies heavy on your soul, it is better to tell God of it and cast yourself on the mercy of ourHeavenly Father. "

Gathering strength, the girl continued: "And if it is a dark secretthat touches others than yourself--if others may suffer, or aresuffering, from it even now--if this is so, I pray of you, as you hopefor that Divine mercy, confess it now, confess it before it is toolate--fling it forth from your stifled heart--do not bury its deadbody there, and leave it to be revealed only at that judgment whenevery human deed, be it never so secret, shall be stripped nakedbefore the Lord, that retribution may be measured out for ever andever. "

Rotha had risen to her feet, and was leaning over the bed with onehand in an attitude of acutest pain, convulsively clutching the handof the blacksmith. 

"Oh, I implore you, " she continued, "speak out what is in your heartfor your own sake, as well as the sake of others. Do not lose theseprecious moments. Be true! be true at last! at last! Then let it bewith you as God shall order. Do not carry this sin to the eternaljudgment. Blessed, a thousand times blessed, will be the outpouring ofa contrite heart. God will hear it. "

Garth looked into the girl's inspired face. 

"I don't see my way clearly, " he said. "I'm same as a man that gropesnigh midway through yon passage underground at Legberthwaite. Thelight behind me grows dimmer, dimmer, dimmer, and not yet comes thegleam of the light in front. I'm not at the darkest; no, I'm not. "

"A guest is knocking at your heart, Mr. Garth. Will you open to him?"Then, in another tone, she added: "To-morrow at daybreak two men willdie in Carlisle--my father and Ralph Ray--and they are innocent!"

"Ey, it's true, " said the blacksmith, breaking down at length. 

Then struggling once more to lift himself in bed, he cried, "Mother, tell her _I_ did it, and not Ralph. Tell them all that it was I myselfwho did it. Tell them I was driven to it, as God is my judge. "

The old woman jumped up, and, putting her face close to her son's, shewhispered, --

"Thou madman! What wadsta say?"

"Mother, dear mother, my mother, " he cried, "think of what you woulddo; think of me standing, as I must soon stand--very soon--beforeGod's face with this black crime on my soul. Let me cast it off fromme forever. Do not tempt me to hide it! Rotha, pray with her; praythat she will not let me stand before God thus miserably burthened, thus red as scarlet with a foul, foul sin!"

Garth's breath was coming and going like a tempest. It was a terriblemoment. Rotha flung herself on her knees. She had not been used topray, but the words gushed from her. 

"Dear Father in heaven, " she prayed, "soften the hearts of all of ushere in this solemn hour. Let us remember our everlasting souls. Letus not barter them for the poor comforts of this brief life. Father, thou readest all hearts. No secret so secret, none so closely hiddenfrom all men's eyes, but Thou seest it and canst touch it with afinger of fire. Help us here to reveal our sins to Thee. If we havesinned deeply, forgive us in Thy heavenly mercy; in Thy infinitegoodness grant us peace. Let Thy angel hover over us even now, evennow, now. "

And the angel of the Lord was indeed with them in that little cottageamong the desolate hills. 

Rotha rose up and turned to Garth. 

"Under the shadow of death, " she said, "tell me, I implore you, howand when you committed the crime for which father and Ralph arecondemned to die to-morrow. "

Mrs. Garth had returned once more to her seat. The blacksmith'sstrength was failing him. His agitation had nigh exhausted him. Tearswere now in his eyes, and when he spoke in a feeble whisper, a sob wasin his throat. 

"He was my father, " he said, "God forgive me--Wilson was myfather--and he left us to starve, mother and me; and when he came backto us here we thought Ralph Ray had brought him to rob us of thelittle that we had. " "God forgive me, too, " said Mrs. Garth, "butthat was wrong. "

"Wrong?" inquired the blacksmith. 

"Ey, it came out at the trial, " muttered his mother. 

Garth seemed overcome by a fresh flood of feeling. Rotha lifted abasin of barley-water to his lips. 

"Yes, yes; but how was it done--how?"

"He did not die where they threw him--Ralph--Angus--whoever it was--hegot up some while after and staggered to this house--he said Ray hadthrown him and he was hurt--Ray, that was all. He wanted to come inand rest, but I flung the door in his face and he fell. Then he gotup, and shrieked out something--it was something against myself; hecalled me a bastard, that's the fact. Then it was as if a hand behindme pushed me on. I opened the door and struck him. I didn't know thatI had a hammer in my hand, but I had. He fell dead. "

"Well, well, what next?"

"Nothing--yes--late the same night I carried him back to where Ithought he had come from--and that's all!"

The little strength Garth had left was wellnigh spent. 

"Would you sign a paper saying this?" asked Rotha, bending over him. 

"Ey, if there would be any good in it. "

"It might save the lives of father and Ralph; but your mother wouldneed to witness it. "

"She will do that for me, " said Garth feebly. "It will be the lastthing I'll ask of her. She will go herself and witness it. "

"Ey, ey, " sobbed the broken woman, who rocked herself before the fire. 

Rotha took the pen and paper, and wrote, in a hand that betrayed heremotion, --

"This is to say that I, Joseph Garth, being near my end, yet knowingwell the nature of my act, do confess to having committed the crime ofkilling the man known as James Wilson, for whose death Ralph Ray andSimeon Stagg stand condemned. "

"Can you sign it now, Joe?" asked Rotha, as tenderly as eagerly. 

Garth nodded assent. He was lifted to a sitting position. Rotha spreadthe paper before him, and then supported him from behind with herarms. 

He took the pen in his graspless hand, and essayed to write. Oh, theagony of that effort! How every futile stroke of that pen went to thegirl's heart like a stab of remorse! The name was signed at length, and in some sorry fashion. The dying man was restored to his pillow. 

Peace came to him there and then. 

The clock struck eight. 

Rotha hurried out of the house and down the road to the bridge. Themoon had just broken over a ridge of black cloud. It was bitterlycold. 

Willy Ray stood with his horse at the appointed place. 

"How agitated you are, Rotha; you tremble like an aspen, " he said. "And where are your shawls?"

"Look at this paper, " she said. "You can scarce see to read it here;but it is a confession. It states that it was poor Joe Garth whocommitted the murder for which father and Ralph are condemned to dieat daybreak. "

"At last! Thank God!" exclaimed Willy. 

"Take it--put it in your breast--keep it safe as you value youreternal soul--ride to Carlisle as fast as your horse will carry you, and place it instantly before the sheriff. "

"Is it signed?"

"Yes. "

"And witnessed?"

"The witness will follow in person--a few hours--a very few--and shewill be with you there. "

"Rotha, God has put it into your heart to do this thing, and He hasgiven you more than the strength of a strong man!"

"In how many hours might one ride to Carlisle at the fastest--in thenight and in a cart?" asked the girl eagerly. 

"Five, perhaps, if one knew every inch of the way. "

"Then, before you set out, drive round to Armboth, and ask Mr. Jacksonto bring his wagon across to this bridge at midnight. Let him not say'No' as he hopes for his salvation! And now, good bye again, and Godspeed you on your journey!"

Willy carried a cloak over his arm. He was throwing it across Rotha'sunprotected shoulders. 

"No, no, " she said, "you need it yourself. I shall be back in aminute. "

And she was gone almost before he was aware. 

Willy was turning away when he heard a step behind. It was theReverend Nicholas Stevens, lantern in hand, lighting himself home froma coming-of-age celebration at Smeathwaite. As he approached, Willystepped up to him. 

"Stop, " cried the parson, "was she who parted from you but now thedaughter of the man Simeon Stagg?"

"The same, " Willy answered. 

"And she comes from the home of the infected blacksmith?"

"She is there again, even now, " said Willy. "I thought you might wishto take the solace of religion to a dying man--Garth is dying. "

"Back--away--do not touch me--let me pass, " whispered the parson in anaccent of dread, shrinking meantime from the murderous stab of thecloak which Willy carried over his arm. 

Rotha was in the cottage once again almost before she had been missed. 

Joe was dozing fitfully. His mother was sighing and whimpering inturns. Her wrinkled face, no longer rigid, was a distressingspectacle. When Rotha came close to her she whispered, --

"The lad was wrang, but I dare not have telt 'im so. Yon man were noneof a father to Joe, though he were my husband, mair's the pity. "

Then getting up, glancing nervously at her son, lifting a knife fromthe table, creeping to the side of the bed and ripping a hole in theticking, she drew out a soiled and crumpled paper. 

"Look you, lass, I took this frae the man's trunk when he lodged wi'yer father and yersel' at Fornside. "

It was a copy of the register of Joe's birth, showing that he was theson of a father unknown. 

"I knew he must have it. He always threatened that he'd get it. He wadhave made mischief wi' it somehow. "

Mrs. Garth spoke in whispers, but her voice broke her son's restlesssleep. Garth was sinking fast, but he looked quieter when his eyesopened again. "I think God has forgiven me my great crime, " he saidcalmly, "for the sake of the merciful Saviour, who would not condemnthe woman that was a sinner. "

Then he crooned over the Quaker hymn, --

 Though your sins be red as scarlet, He shall wash them white as wool. 

Infinitely touching was it to hear his poor, feeble, broken voicespend its last strength so. 

"Sing to me, Rotha, " he said, pausing for breath. 

"Yes, Joe. What shall I sing?"

"Sing 'O Lord, my God, '" he answered. And then, over the murmuringvoice of the river, above the low wail of the rising wind, the girl'ssweet, solemn voice, deep with tenderness and tears, sang the simpleold hymn, --

 O Lord, my God, A broken heart Is all my part: Spare not Thy rod, That I may prove Therein Thy love. 

"Ey, ey, " repeated Garth, "a broken heart is _all_ my part. "

Very tremulous was the voice of the singer as she sang, --

 O Lord, my God, Or ere I die, And silent lie Beneath the sod, Do Thou make whole This bruis�d soul. 

"This bruised soul, " murmured the blacksmith. 

Rotha had stopped, and buried her face in her hands. 

"There's another verse, Rotha; there's another verse. "

But the singer could sing no more. Then the dying man himself sang inhis feeble voice, and with panting breath, --

 Dear Lord, my God-- Weary and worn, Bleeding and torn-- Spare now Thy rod. Sorely distressed-- Lord, give me rest. 

There was a bright light in his eyes. And surely victory was his atlast. The burden was cast off forever. "Lord, give me rest, " hemurmured again, and the tongue that uttered the prayer spoke no more. 

Rotha took his hand. His pulse sank--slower, slower, slower. His endwas like the going out of a lamp--down, down, down--then a fitfulflicker--and then--

Death, the merciful mediator; Death, the Just Judge; Death, therighter of the wronged; Death was here--here!

Mrs. Garth's grief was uncontrollable. The hard woman was as nervelessas a baby now. Yet it was not at first that she would accept theevidence of her senses. Reaching over the bed, she half raised thebody in her arms. 

"Why, he's dead, my boy he's dead!" she cried. "Tell me he's not dead, though he lies sa still. "

Rotha drew her away, and, stooping, she kissed the cold wastedwhitened lips. 

At midnight a covered cart drove up to the cottage by the smithy. JohnJackson was on the seat outside. Rotha and Mrs. Garth got into it. Then they started away. 

As they crossed the bridge and turned the angle of the road that shutout the sight of the darkened house they had left, the two womenturned their heads towards it and their hearts sank within them asthey thought of him whom they left behind. Then they wept together. 

CHAPTER XLIX. PEACE, PEACE, AND REST. 

In Carlisle the time of the end was drawing near. Throughout thedeath-day of the blacksmith at Wythburn the two men who were to diefor his crime on the morrow sat together in their cell in the Donjontower. 

Ralph was as calm as before, and yet more cheerful. The time ofatonement was at hand. The ransom was about to be paid. To break thehard fate of a life, of many lives, he had come to die, and death washere!

Bent and feeble, white as his smock, and with staring eyes, Simcontinued to protest that God would not let them die at this time andin this place. 

"If He does, " he said, "then it is not true what they have told us, that God watches over all!"

"What is that you are saying, old friend?" returned Ralph. "Deathcomes to every one. The black camel kneels at the gate of all. If itcame to some here and some there, then it would be awful indeed. "

"But to die before our time is terrible, it is, " said Sim. 

"Before our time--what time?" said Ralph. "To-day or to-morrow--whoshall say which is your time or mine?"

"Aye, but to die like this!" said Sim, and rocked himself in his seat. 

"And is it not true that a short death is the sovereign good hap oflife?"

"The shame of it--the shame of it, " Sim muttered. 

"That touches us not at all, " said Ralph. "Only the guilty can feelthe shame of a shameful death. No, no; death is kindest. And yet, andyet, old friend, I half repent me of my resolve. The fatal warrant, which has been the principal witness against us, was preserved in thesole hope that one day it might serve you in good stead. For yoursake, and yours only, would to God that I might say where I came by itand when!"

"No, no, no, " cried Sim, with a sudden access of resolution; "I _am_the guilty man after all, and it is but justice that _I_ should die. But that _you_ should die also--you that are as innocent as the babeunborn--God will never look down on it, I tell you. God will neverwitness it; never, never!"

At that moment the organ of the chapel of the castle burst on the ear. It was playing for afternoon service. Then the voices of the choircame, droned and drowsed and blurred, across the green and through thethick walls of the tower. The sacred harmonies swept up to them intheir cell as the intoned Litanies sweep down a long cathedral aisleto those who stand under the sky at its porch. Deep, rich, full, pure, and solemn. The voice of peace, peace, and rest. 

The two men shut their eyes and listened. 

In that world on which they had turned their backs men werestruggling, men were fighting, men's souls were being torn by passion. In that world to which their faces were set no haunting, hurryingfootsteps ever fell; no soul was yet vexed by fierce fire, no dross ofbudded hope was yet laid low. All was rest and peace. 

The gaoler knocked. A visitor was here to see Ralph. He had securedthe permission of the under sheriff to see him for half an hour alone. 

Sim rose, and prepared to follow the gaoler. 

"No, " said Ralph, motioning him back; "it is too late for secrets tocome between you and me. He must stay, " he added, turning to thegaoler. 

A moment later Robbie Anderson entered. He was deeply moved. 

"I was ill and insensible at the time of the trial, " he said. 

Then he told the long story of his fruitless quest. 

"My evidence might have saved you, " he said. "Is it yet too late?"

"Yes, it is too late, " said Ralph. 

"I think I could say where the warrant came from. "

"Robbie, remember the vow you took never to speak of this matteragain. "

At mention of the warrant, Sim had once more crept up eagerly. Ralphsaw that the hope of escape still clung to him. Would that muddyimperfection remain with him to the last?

"Robbie, if you ever had any feeling for me as a friend and comrade, let this thing lie forever undiscovered in your mind. "

Unable to speak, the young dalesman bent his head. 

"As for Sim, it wounds me to the soul. But for myself, what have I nowto live for? Nothing. I tried to save the land to my mother andbrother. How is she?"

"Something better, as I heard. "

"Poor mother! And--Rotha--is she--"

"She is well. "

"Thank God! Perhaps when these sad events are long gone by, and havefaded away into a dim memory, perhaps then she will be happy in mybrother's love. "

"Willy?" said Robbie, with look and accent of surprise. 

Then there was a pause. 

"She has been an angel, " said Robbie feelingly. 

"Better than that--she has been a woman; God bless and keep her!" saidRalph. 

Robbie glanced into Ralph's face; tears stood in his eyes. 

Sim sat and moaned. 

"My poor little Rotie, " he mumbled. "My poor little lost Rotie!"

The days of her childhood had flowed back to him. She was a child oncemore in his memory. 

"Robbie, " said Ralph, "since we have been here one strange passage hasbefallen me, and I believe it is real and not the effect of adisturbed fancy. "

"What is it, Ralph?" said Robbie. 

"The first night after we were shut up in this place, I thought in thedarkness, being fully awake, that one opened the door. I turned myhead, thinking it must be the gaoler. But when I looked it was Rotha. She had a sweet smile on her dear face. It was a smile of hope andcheer. Last night, again, I was awakened by Sim crying in hissleep--the strange, shrill, tearless night-cry that freezes the bloodof the listener. Then I lay an hour awake. Again I thought that oneopened the door. I looked to see Rotha. It was she. I believe she wassent to us in the spirit as a messenger of peace and hope--hope ofthat better world which we are soon to reach. "

The gaoler knocked. Robbie's time had expired. "How short these lastmoments seem!" said Ralph; "yet an eternity of last moments would bebrief. Farewell, my lad! God bless you!"

The dalesmen shook hands. Their eyes were averted. 

Robbie took his leave with many tears. 

Then rose again the voices of the unseen choir within the chapel. Theorgan pealed out in loud flute tones that mounted like a lark, higher, higher, higher, winging its way in the clear morning air. It was thechant of a returning angel scaling heaven. Then came the long sweepsof a more solem harmony. Peace, peace! And rest! And rest!

CHAPTER L. NEXT MORNING. 

Next morning at daybreak the hammering of the carpenters had ceased inthe Market Place, and their lamps, that burned dim in their sockets, like lights across a misty sea, were one by one put out. Draped inblack, the ghastly thing that they had built during the night stoodbetween the turrets of the guard-house. 

Already the townspeople were awake. People were hurrying to and fro. Many were entering the houses that looked on to the market. They wereeager to secure their points of vantage from which to view thatmorning's spectacle. 

The light came slowly. It was a frosty morning. At seven o'clock athin vapor hung in the air and waved to and fro like a veil. Itblurred the face of the houses, softened their sharp outlines, andseemed at some moments to carry them away into the distance. The sunrose soft and white as an autumn moon behind a scarf of cloud. 

At half past seven the Market Place was thronged. On every inch of theground, on every balcony, in every window, over every portico, alongthe roofs of the houses north, south, east, and west, clinging to thechimney-stacks, hanging high up on the pyramidical turrets of theguard-house itself, astride the arms of the old cross, peering frombetween the battlements of the cathedral tower and the musket lancetsof the castle, were crowded, huddled, piled, the spectators of thatmorning's tragedy. 

What a motley throng! Some in yellow and red, some in black; men, women, and children lifted shoulder-high. Some with pale faces andbloodshot eyes, some with rubicund complexion and laughing lips, somebantering as if at a fair, some on the ground hailing their fellows onthe roofs. What a spectacle were they in themselves!

There at the northeast of the Market Place, between Scotch Street amidEnglish Street, were half a hundred men and boys in blouses, seated onthe overhanging roof of the wooden shambles. They were shouting sorryjests at half a dozen hoydenish women who looked out of the windows ofa building raised on pillars over a well, known as Carnaby's Folly. 

On the roof of the guard-house stood five or six soldiers in redcoats. One fellow, with a pipe between his lips, leaned over theparapet to kiss his hand to a little romping serving-wench who giggledat him from behind a curtain in a house opposite. There was an opencarriage in the very heart of that throng below. Seated within it wasa stately gentleman with a gray peaked beard, and dressed in blackvelvet cloak and doublet, having lace collar and ruffles; and side byside with him was a delicate young maiden muffled to the throat infur. The morning was bitterly cold, but even this frail flower ofhumanity had been drawn forth by the business that was now at hand. Where is she now, and what?

A spectacle indeed, and for the eye of the mind a spectacle no lessvarious than for the bodily organ. 

Bosoms seared and foul and sick with uncleanliness. Hearts bound inthe fetters of crime. Hot passions broken loose. Discord rampant. Somethat smote the breast nightly in the anguish of remorse. Some thatknew not where to hide from the eye of conscience the secret sin thatcorroded the soul. 

Lonely, utterly lonely, in this dense throng were some that shudderedand laughed by turns. 

There were blameless men and women, too, drawn by curiosity and byanother and stronger magnet that they knew of. How would the condemnedmeet their end? Would it be with craven timidity or with theintrepidity of heroes, or again with the insensibility of brutes?Death was at hand--the inexorable, the all-powerful. How could mortalman encounter it face to face? This was the great problem then; it isthe great problem now. 

Two men were to be executed at eight that morning. Again and again thepeople turned to look at the clock. It hung by the side of the dial inthe cupola of the old Town Hall. How slowly moved its tardy figures!God forgive them, there were those in that crowd who would have helpedforward, if they could, its passionless pulse. And a few minutes moreor fewer in this world or the next, of what account were they in thegreat audit of men who were doomed to die?

 * * * * *

In a room of the guard-house the condemned sat together. They had beenbrought from the castle in the night. 

"We shall fight our last battle to-day, " said Ralph. "The enemy willtake our camp, but, God willing, we shall have the victory. Neverlower the flag. Cheer up! Keep a brave heart! A few swift minutesmore, and all will be well!"

Sim was crouching at a fire, wringing his lean hands or clutching hislong gray hair. 

"Ralph, it shall never be! God will never see it done!"

"Put away the thought, " replied Ralph. "God has brought us here. "

Sim jumped to his feet and cried, "Then I will never witness it--never!"

Ralph put his hand gently but firmly on Sim's arm and drew him back tohis seat. 

The sound of singing came from without, mingled with laughter andjeers. 

"Hark!" cried Sim, "hearken to them again; nay, hark!"

Sim put his head aside and listened. Then, leaping up, he shouted yetmore wildly than before, "No, no! never, never!"

Ralph took him once more by the arm, and the poor worn creature sankinto his seat with a low wail. 

 * * * * *

There was commotion in the corridors and chief chamber of theguard-house. 

"Where is the sheriff?" was the question asked on every hand. 

Willy Ray was there, and had been for hours closeted with thesheriff's assistant. 

"Here is the confession duly signed, " he said for the fiftieth time, as he walked nervously to and fro. 

"No use, none. Without the King's pardon or reprieve, the thing mustbe done. "

"But the witnesses will be with us within the hour. Put it back butone little hour and they must be here. "

"Impossible. We hold the King's warrant, and must obey it to theletter. "

"God in heaven! Do you not see yourself, do you not think that if thisthing is done, two innocent men will die?"

"It is not for me to think. My part is to act. "

"Where is your chief? Can you go on without him?"

"We can and must. "

 * * * * *

The clock in the Market Place registered ten minutes to eight. A pale-faced man in the crowd started a hymn. 

"Stop his mouth, " cried a voice from the roof of the shambles, "theQuaker rascal!" And the men in blouses started a catch. But thesinging continued; others joined in it, and soon it swelled to a longwave of song and flowed over that human sea. 

But the clock was striking, and before its last bell had ceased toring, between the lines of the hymn, a window of the guard-house wasthrown open and a number of men stepped out. 

In a moment the vast concourse was hushed to the stillness of death. 

"Where is Wilfrey Lawson?" whispered one. 

The sheriff was not there. The under sheriff and a burly fellow inblack were standing side by side. 

Among those who were near to the scaffold on the ground in front of itwas one we know. Robbie Anderson had tramped the Market Place the longnight through. He had not been able to tear himself from the spot. Hiseye was the first to catch sight of two men who came behind thechaplain. One of these walked with a firm step, a broad-breasted man, with an upturned face. Supported on his arm the other staggered along, his head on his breast, his hair whiter, and his step feebler than ofold. Necks were craned forward to catch a glimpse of them. 

 * * * * *

"This is terrible, " Sim whispered. 

"Only a minute more, and it will be over, " answered Ralph. 

Sim burst into tears that shook his whole frame. 

"Bravely, old friend, " Ralph said, melted himself, despite his wordsof cheer. "One minute, and we shall meet again. Bravely, then, andfear not. "

Sim was struggling to regain composure. He succeeded. His tears weregone, but a wild look came into his face. Ralph dreaded this more thantears. 

"Be quiet, Sim, " he whispered; "be still, and say no word. "

The under sheriff approached Ralph. 

"Have you any statement to make?" he said. 

"None. "

"Nor you?" said the officer, turning to Ralph's companion. 

Sim was trying to overcome his emotion. 

"He has nothing to say, " said Ralph quietly. Then he whispered againin Sim's ear, "Bravely. "

Removing his arm from Sim's convulsive grasp, he threw off his longcoat. At that moment the bleared sun lit up his lifted face. There wasa hush of awe. 

Then, with a frantic gesture, Sim sprang forward, and seizing the armof the under sheriff, he cried hysterically, --

"Ay, but I _have_ something to say. He is innocent--take me back andlet me prove it--he is innocent--it's true--it's true--I say it'strue--let me prove it. "

With a face charged with sorrow, Ralph walked to Sim and said, "Onemoment more and we had clasped hands in heaven. "

 * * * * *

But now there was a movement at the back. The sheriff himself was seenstepping from the window to the scaffold. He was followed by Willy Rayand John Jackson. Two women stood together behind, Rotha and Mrs. Garth. 

Willy came forward and fell on his brother's neck. 

"God has had mercy upon us, " he cried, amid a flood of tears. 

Ralph looked amazed. The sheriff said something to him which he didnot hear. The words were inaudible to the crowd, but the quicksympathy of the great heart of the people caught the unheard message. 

"A reprieve! a reprieve!" shouted fifty voices. 

A woman fainted at the window behind. It was Rotha. 

The two men were led off with staring eyes. They walked like men in adream. 

Saved! saved! saved!

Then there went up a mighty shout. It was one vast voice, more loudthan the blast on the mountains, more deep than the roar of the sea!

CHAPTER LI. SIX MONTHS AFTER. 

It was the height of a Cumbrian summer. Bracken Mere was as smooth asa sheet of glass. The hills were green, gray, and purple to thesummits, and their clear outlines stood out against the sky. The skyitself would have been cloudless but for one long scarf of plaitedwhite which wore away across a lake of blue. The ghyll fell like afurled flag. The thin river under the clustering leaves sang beneathits breath. The sun was hot and the air was drowsed by the hum ofinsects. 

And full of happy people was the meadow between the old house on theMoss and the pack-horse road in front of it. It was the day of theWythburn sports, and this year it was being celebrated atShoulthwaite. Tents had been pitched here and there in out-of-the-waycorners of the field, and Mrs. Branthwaite, with her meek face, wasappointed chief mistress and dispenser of the hospitality of theShoulthwaite household. 

"This is not taty-and-point, " said her husband, with a twinkle in hiseyes and a sensation of liquidity about the lips as he came up tosurvey the outspread tables. 

Mattha Branthwaite was once more resplendent in those Chapel-Sundaygarments with which, in the perversity of the old weaver's unorthodoxheart, that auspicious day was not often honored. Mrs. Ray had beencarried out in her chair by her stalwart sons. Her dear old facelooked more mellow and peaceful than before. Folks said the paralysiswas passing away. Mattha himself, who never at any time took amelancholy view of his old neighbor's seizure, stands by her chairto-day and fires off his sapient saws at her with the certainty thatshe appreciates every saw of them. 

"The dame's to the fore yit, " he says, "and lang will be. "

At Mrs. Ray's feet her son Willy lies on the grass in a blue jerkinand broad-brimmed black hat with a plume. Willy's face is of the typeon which trouble tells. Behind him, and leaning on the gate that leadsfrom the court to the meadow, is Ralph, in a loose jacket with deepcollar and a straw hat. He looks years younger than when we saw himlast. He is just now laughing heartily at a batch of theschoolmaster's scholars who are casting lots close at hand. Onebullet-headed little fellow has picked up a couple of pebbles, andafter putting them through some unseen and mysterious manoeuvresbehind him, is holding them out in his two little fists, saying, --

 Neevy, neevy nack, Whether hand will ta tack-- T' topmer or t' lowmer?

"What hantle of gibberish is that?" says Monsey Laman himself. 

"_I_ is to tumble the poppenoddles, " cries the bullet-headedgentleman. And presently the rustic young gamester is tossingsomersets for a penny. 

In the middle of the meadow, and encircled by a little crowd ofexcited male spectators, two men are trying a fall at wrestling. Stripped to the waist, they are treating each other to somewhatdemonstrative embraces. 

At a few yards' distance another little circle, of more symmetricaloutlines, and comprising both sexes, are standing with linked hands. Ashame-faced young maiden is carrying a little cushion around hercompanions. They are playing the "cushion game. "

At one corner of the field there is a thicket overgrown with wildroses, white and red. Robbie Anderson, who has just escaped from arebellious gang of lads who have been climbing on his shoulders andclinging to his legs, is trying to persuade Liza Branthwaite thatthere is something curious and wonderful lying hidden within thisflowery ambush. 

"It's terrible nice, " he says, rather indefinitely. "Come, lass, comeand see. "

Liza refuses plump. 

The truth is that Liza has a shrewd suspicion that the penalty ofacquiescence would be a kiss. Now, she has no particular aversion tothat kind of commerce, but since Robbie is so eager, she has resolved, like a true woman, that his appetite shall be whetted by a temporarydisappointment. 

"Not I, " she says, with arms akimbo and a rippling laugh of knowingmockery. Presently her sprightly little feet are tripping away. 

Still encircled by half a score of dogs, Robbie returns to the middleof the meadow, where the wrestlers have given way to some who arepreparing for a race up the fell. Robbie throws off his coat and cap, and straps a belt about his waist. 

"Why, what's this?" inquires Liza, coming up at the moment, withmischief in her eyes, and bantering her sweetheart with roguish jeers. "_You_ going to run! Why, you are only a bit of a boy, you know. Howcan _you_ expect to win?"

"Just you wait and see, little lass, " says Robbie, with undisturbedgood humor. 

"You'll slidder all the way down the fell, sure enough, " saves Liza. 

"All right; just you get a cabbish-skrunt poultice ready for my brokenshins, " says Robbie. 

"I would scarce venture if I were you, " continues Liza, to the vastamusement of the bystanders. "Wait till you're a man, Robbie. "

The competitors--there are six of them--are now stationed; the signalis given, and away they go. 

The fell is High Seat, and it is steep and rugged. The first to roundthe "man" at the summit and reach the meadow again wins the prize. 

Over stones, across streams, tearing through thickets, through beltsof trees--look how they go! Now they are lost to the sight of thespectators below; now they are seen, and now they are hidden; nowthree of the six emerge near the top. 

The excitement in the field is at full pitch. Liza is beside herselfwith anxiety. 

"It's Robbie--no, yes--no--egg him on, do; te-lick; te-smack. "

One man has rounded the summit, and two others follow himneck-and-neck. They are coming down, jumping, leaping, flying. They'rehere, here, and it is--yes, it _is_ Robbie that leads!

"Well done! Splendid! Twelve minutes! Well done! Weel, weel, I oles dosay 'at ye hev a lang stroke o' the grund, Robbie, " says Mattha. 

"And what do _you_ say?" says Robbie, panting, and pulling on his coatas he turns to Liza, who is trying to look absent and unconcerned. 

"Ay! Did you speak to me? I say that perhaps you didn't go round the'man' at all. You were always a bit of a cheat, you know. "

"Then here goes for cheating you. " Robbie had caught Liza about thewaist, and was drawing her to that rose-covered thicket. She found hewas holding her tight. He was monstrously strong. What ever _was_ thegood of trying to get away?

Two elderly women were amused spectators of Liza's ineffectualstruggles. 

"I suppose you know they are to be wedded, " said one. 

"I suppose so, " rejoined the other; "and I hear that Ralph is to let abit of land to Robbie; he has given him a horse, I'm told. "

Matthew Branthwaite had returned to his station by Mrs. Ray's chair. 

"Whear's Rotha?" says the old weaver. 

"She said she would come and bring her father, " said Willy from thegrass, where he still lay at his mother's feet. 

"It was bad manishment, my lad, to let the lass gang off agen with Simto yon Fornside. "

Mattha is speaking with an insinuating smile. 

"Could ye not keep her here? Out upon tha for a good to nowt. "

Willy makes no reply to the weaver's banter. 

At that moment Rotha and her father are seen to enter the meadow by agate at the lower end. 

Ralph steps forward and welcomes the new-comers. 

Sim has aged fast these last six months, but he is brighter lookingand more composed. The dalespeople have tried hard to make up to himfor their former injustice. He receives their conciliatory attentionswith a somewhat too palpable effort at cordiality, but he is only lesstimid than before. 

Ralph leads Rotha to a vacant chair near to where his mother sits. 

"A blithe heart maks a blooming look, " says Mattha to the girl. Rotha's face deserves the compliment. To-day it looks as fresh as itis always beautiful. But there is something in it now that we havenever before observed. The long dark lashes half hide and half reveala tenderer light than has hitherto stolen into those deep brown eyes. The general expression of the girl's face is not of laughter nor yetof tears, but of that indescribable something that lies between thesetwo, when, after a world of sadness, the heart is glad--the sunshineof an April day. 

"This seems like the sunny side of the hedge at last, Rotha, " saysRalph, standing by her side, twirling his straw hat on one hand. 

There is some bustle in their vicinity. The schoolmaster, who prideshimself on having the fleetest foot in the district, has undertaken tocatch a rabbit. Trial of speed is made, and he succeeds in two hundredyards. 

"Theer's none to match the laal limber Frenchman, " says Mattha, "forcatching owte frae a rabbit to a slap ower the lug at auld NickyStevens's. "

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughs Reuben Thwaite, rather boisterously, as he comesup in time to hear the weaver's conceit. 

"There's one thing I never caught yet, Master Reuben, " says Monsey. 

"And what is it?" says the little blink-eyed dalesman. 

"A ghost on a lime-and-mould heap!"

"Ha! ha! ha! He's got a lad's heart the laal man has, " says Mattha, with the manner of a man who is conscious that he is making anoriginal observation. 

And now the sun declines between the Noddle Fell and Bleaberry. Thesports are over, but not yet is the day's pleasure done. When darknesshas fallen over meadow and mountain the kitchen of the house on theMoss is alive with bright faces. The young women of Wythburn havebrought their spinning-wheels, and they sit together and make somepretence to spin. The young men are outside. The old folks are inanother room with Mrs. Ray. 

Presently a pebble is heard to crack against the window pane. 

"What ever can it be?" says one of the maidens with an air of profoundamazement. 

One venturesome damsel goes to the door "Why, it's a young man!" shesays, with overpowering astonishment. 

The unexpected creature enters the kitchen, followed by a longish lineof similar apparitions. They seat themselves on the table, on theskemmels, on the stools between the spinners--anywhere, everywhere. 

What sport ensues! what story-telling! what laughing! what singing!

Ralph comes downstairs, and is hailed with welcomes on all hands. Heis called upon for a song. Yes, he can sing. He always sang in the olddays. He must sing now. 

"I'll sing you something I heard in Lancaster, " he says. 

"What about--the Lancashire witches?"

"Who writ it--little Monsey?"

"No, but a bigger man than Monsey, " said Ralph with a smile. 

"He _would_ be a mite if he were no bigger than the schoolmaster, " putin that lady of majestic stature, Liza Branthwaite. 

Then Ralph sang in his deep baritone, "Fear no more the heat o' thesun. "

And the click of the spinning-wheels seemed to keep time to the slowmeasure of the fine old song. 

Laddie, the collie, was there. He lay at Ralph's feet with a solemnface. He was clearly thinking out the grave problems attaching to theplace of dogs on this universe. 

"Didn't I hear my name awhile ago?" said a voice from behind the door. The head of the speaker emerged presently. It was Monsey Laman. He hadbeen banished with the "old folks. "

"Come your ways in, schoolmaster, " cried Robbie Anderson. "Who says'yes' to a bout of play-acting?"

As a good many said "Yes, " an armchair was forthwith placed at onecorner of the kitchen with its back to the audience. Monsey mountedit. Robbie went out of doors, and, presently re-entering with acountenance of most woeful solemnity, approached the chair, bent onone knee, and began to speak, --

 Oh wad I were a glove upo' yon hand 'At I med kiss yon fe�ce. 

A loud burst of laughter rewarded this attempt on the life of thetragic muse. But when the schoolmaster, perched aloft, affecting apeuking voice (a strangely unnecessary artistic effort), said, --

"Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?" and the alleged Romeo on hisknees replied, "Nowther, sweet lass, if owther thoo offend, " thelaughter in the auditorium reached the point of frantic screams. Theactors, like wise artists, were obviously indifferent to any questionof the kind of impression produced, and went at their task withconscientious ardor. 

The little schoolmaster smiled serenely, enchantingly, bewitchingly. Robbie panted and gasped, and sighed and moaned. 

"Did you ever see a man in such a case?" said Liza, wiping away thehysterical tears of merriment that coursed down her cheeks. 

"Wait a bit, " said Robbie, rather stepping out of his character. 

It was a part of the "business" of this tragedy, as Robbie had seen itperformed in Carlisle, that Romeo should cast a nosegay up into thebalcony to Juliet. Robbie had provided himself with the "property" inquestion, and, pending the moment at which it was necessary to use it, he had deposited it on the floor behind him. But in the fervor ofimpersonation, he had not observed that Liza had crept up and stolenit away. 

"Where's them flowers?" cried Romeo, scarcely _sotto voce_. 

When the nosegay was yielded up to the lover on his knees, it wasfound to be about three times as big as Juliet's head. 

The play came to an abrupt conclusion; the spinning-wheels were pushedaside, a fiddle was brought out, and then followed a dance. 

"Iverything has a stopping spot but time, " said Mattha Branthwaite, coming in, his hat and cloak on. 

The night was spent. The party must break up. 

The girls drew on their bonnets and shawls, and the young menshouldered the wheels. 

A large company were to sail up the mere to the city in the row-boat, and Rotha, Ralph, and Willy walked with them to Water's Head. Simremained with Mrs. Ray. 

What a night it was! The moon was shining at the full from a sky ofdeep blue that was studded with stars. Not a breath of wind wasstirring. The slow beat of the water on the shingle came to the earover the light lap against the boat. The mere stretched miles away. Itseemed to be as still as a white feather on the face of the dead, andto be alive with light. Where the swift but silent current was cutasunder by a rock, the phosphorescent gleams sent up sheets ofbrightness. The boat, which rolled slowly, half-afloat andhalf-ashore, was bordered by a fringe of silver. When at one moment agentle breeze lifted the water into ripples, countless stars floated, down a white waterway from yonder argent moon. Not a house on thebanks of the mere; not a sign of life; only the low plash of waveletson the pebbles. Hark! What cry was that coming clear and shrill? Itwas the curlew. And when the night bird was gone she left a silencedeeper than before. 

The citizens, lads and lasses, old men and dames, got into the boat. Robbie Anderson and three other young fellows took the oars. 

"We'll row ourselves up in a twinkling, " said Liza, as Ralph and Willypushed the keel off the shingle. 

"Hark ye the lass!" cried Mattha. "We hounds slew the hare, quo' theterrier to the cur. "

The sage has fired off the last rustic proverb that we shall ever hearfrom his garrulous old lips. 

When they were fairly afloat, and rowing hard up the stream, the girlsstarted a song. 

The three who stood together at the Water's Head listened long to thedying voices. 

A step on the path broke their trance. It was a lone woman, bent andfeeble. She went by them without a word. 

The brothers exchanged a look. 

"Poor Joe, " said Rotha, almost in a whisper. 

But the girl's cup of joy could bear this memory. She knew her love atlast. 

Willy stepped between Rotha and Ralph. He was deeply moved. He wasabout to yield up the dream of his life. He tried to speak, andstopped. He tried again, and stopped once more. Then he took Rotha'shand and put it into Ralph's, and turned away in silence. 

 * * * * *

And now these two, long knit together, soul to soul, parted by sorrow, purified by affliction, ennobled by suffering, stand in this whitemoonlight hand in hand. 

Hereafter the past is dead to them, and yet lives. What was sown insorrow is raised in joy; what was sown in affliction is raised inpeace; what was sown in suffering is raised in love. 

And thus the tired old world wags on, and true it is to-day asyesterday that WHOM GOD'S HAND RESTS ON HAS GOD AT HIS RIGHT HAND.