“Ay, she o’ the sweet heart,” said the tinker; “we’ll go at once.”

They left the shop, and on every street they travelled there were groups of men gossiping.  Some nodded, others turned away, as the two passed.  Dick Roberts met them at the door of the house where Polly boarded.

“I wish to see Miss Vaughn,” said Trove, coolly.

“She is ill,” said Roberts.

“Could I not see her for a moment?” Trove inquired.

“No.”

“Is she very sick?”

“Very.”

Darrel came close to Roberts.  He looked sternly at the young man.

“Boy,” said he, with great dignity, his long forefinger raised, “within a day ye shall be clothed with shame.”

“They were strange words,” Trove thought, as they walked away in silence; and when they had come to the little shop it was growing dusk.

“What have I done to bring this upon me and my friends?” said Trove, sinking into a chair.

“It is what I have done,” said Darrel; “an’ now I take the mantle o’ thy shame.  Rise, boy, an’ hold up thy head.”

The old man stood erect by the side of the young man.

“See, I am as tall an’ broad as thou art.”

He went to an old chest and got a cap and drew it down upon his head, pushing his gray hair under it.  Then he took from his pocket a red bandanna handkerchief, figured with a cabin, tying it over his face.  He turned, looking at Trove through two square holes in the handkerchief.

“Behold the robber!” said he.

“You know who is the robber?” Trove inquired.

Darrel raised the handkerchief and flung it back upon his head.

“’Tis Roderick Darrel,” said he, his hand now on the shoulder of the young man.

For a moment both stood looking into each other’s eyes.

“What joke is this, my friend?” Trove whispered.

“I speak not lightly, boy.  If where ye thought were honour an’ good faith, there be only guilt an’ shame, can ye believe in goodness?”

For his answer there were silence and the ticking of the clocks.

“Surely ye can an’ will,” said the old man, “for there is the goodness o’ thy own heart.  Ah, boy, though I have it not, remember that I loved honour an’ have sought to fill thee with it.  This night I go where ye cannot follow.”

The tinker turned, halting a pendulum.

Trove groaned as he spoke, “O man, tell me, quickly, what do you mean?”

“That God hath laid his hand upon me,” said Darrel, sternly.  “I cannot see thee suffer, boy, when I am the guilty one.  O Redeemer o’ the world! haste me, haste me now to punishment.”

The young man staggered, like one dazed by the shock of a blow, stepped backward, and partly fell on a lounge against the wall.  Darrel came and bent over him.  Trove sat leaning, his hand on the lounge, staring up at the tinker, his eyes dreadful and amazed.