Above, Dawson was singing at the top of his voice, a sea-song he had learnt of a mariner at the inn he frequented at Greenwich, with a troll at the end, taken up by Moll and me.  And to hear his wife’s voice bearing part in this rude song, made Mr. Godwin’s heart to sink within him.  Under cover of this noise, Simon mounted the stairs without hesitation, Mr. Godwin following at his heels, in a kind of sick bewilderment.  ’Twas pitch dark up there, and Simon, stretching forth his hands to know if Mr. Godwin was by, touched his hand, which was deadly cold and quivering; for here at the door he was seized with a sweating faintness, which so sapped his vigour that he was forced to hold by the wall to save himself from falling.

“Art thee ready?” asks Simon; but he can get no answer, for Mr. Godwin’s energies, quickened by a word from within like a jaded beast by the sting of a whip, is straining his ears to catch what is passing within.  And what hears he?—­The song is ended, and Dawson cries: 

“You han’t lost your old knack of catching a tune, Moll.  Come hither, wench, and sit upon my knee, for I do love ye more than ever.  Give me a buss, chuck; this fine husband of thine shall not have all thy sweetness to himself.”

At this moment, Simon, having lifted the latch under his thumb, pushes wide open the door, and there through the thick cloud of tobacco smoke Mr. Godwin sees the table in disorder, the white cloth flung back over the remnants of our repast and stained with a patch of liquor from an overturned mug, a smutty pipkin set upon the board beside a dish of tobacco, and a broken pipe—­me sitting o’ one side the hearth heavy and drowsy with too much good cheer, and on t’other side his young wife, sitting on Dawson’s knee, with one arm about his neck, and he in his uncouth seaman’s garb, with a pipe in one hand, the other about Moll’s waist, a-kissing her yielded cheek.  With a cry of fury, like any wild beast, he springs forward and clutches at a knife that lies ready to his hand upon the board, and this cry is answered with a shriek from Moll as she starts to her feet.

“Who is this drunken villain?” he cries, stretching the knife in his hand towards Dawson.

And Moll, flinging herself betwixt the knife and Dawson, with fear for his life, and yet with some dignity in her voice and gesture, answers swiftly: 

“This drunken villain is my father.”

CHAPTER XXXI.

Moll’s conscience is quickened by grief and humiliation beyond the ordinary.

“Stand aside, Moll,” cries Dawson, stepping to the fore, and facing Mr. Godwin.  “This is my crime, and I will answer for it with my blood.  Here is my breast” (tearing open his jerkin).  “Strike, for I alone have done you wrong, this child of mine being but an instrument to my purpose.”

Mr. Godwin’s hand fell by his side, and the knife slipped from his fingers.