The night had gathered in, and the room was dark except for the glimmer of a little fire on the open hearth.  The young dalesman looked long into it:  his breast heaved with emotion, and for the first time in his manhood big tears stood in his eyes.  It must be so; it must be that this poor forlorn creature, who had passed through sufferings of his own, and borne them, was now shattered and undone at the prospect of disaster to his friend.  Did he know more than he had said?  It was vain to ask.  Would he—­do anything?  Ralph glanced at the little man:  barrow-backed he was, as he had himself said.  No, the idea seemed monstrous.  The young man rose to go; he could not speak, but he took Sim’s hand in his and held it.  Then he stooped and kissed him on the cheek.

* * * * *

Next morning, soon after daybreak, all Wythburn was astir.  People were hurrying about from door to door and knocking up the few remaining sleepers.  The voices of the men sounded hoarse in the mist of the early morning; the women held their heads together and talked in whispers.  An hour or two later two or three horsemen drove up to the door of the village inn.  There was a bustle within; groups of boys were congregated outside.  Something terrible had happened in the night.  What was it?

Willie Ray, who had left home at early dawn, came back to Shoulthwaite Moss with flushed face and quick-coming breath.  Ralph and his mother were at breakfast.  His father, who had been at market the preceding day, had not risen.

“Dreadful, dreadful!” cried Willy.  “Old Wilson is dead.  Found dead in the dike between Smeathwaite and Fornside.  Murdered, no doubt, for his wages; nothing left about him.”

“Heaven bless us!” cried Mrs. Ray, “to kill a poor man for his week’s wage!” And she sank back into the chair from which she had risen in her amazement.

“They’ve taken his body to the Red Lion, and the coroner is there from Gaskarth.”

Willy was trembling in every limb.

Ralph rose as one stupefied.  He said nothing, but taking down his hat he went out.  Willy looked after him, and marked that he took the road to Fornside.

When he got there he found the little cottage besieged.  Crowds of women and boys stood round the porch and peered in at the window.  Ralph pushed his way through them and into the house.  In the kitchen were the men from Gaskarth and many more.  On a chair near the cold hearth, where no fire had been kindled since he last saw it, sat Sim with glassy eyes.  His neck was bare and his clothes disordered.  At his back stood Rotha, with her arms thrown round her father’s neck.  His long, thin fingers were clutching her clasped hands as with a vise.

“You must come with us,” said one of the strangers, addressing the tailor.  He was justice and coroner of the district.

Sim said nothing and did not stir.  Then the young girl’s voice broke the dreadful silence.