“He would have been the best agent in the King’s service to a certainty,” said one.  “He’s the ’cutest man I ever tackled.  It’s parlish odd how he baffles us.”

The speaker was clearly a Cumbrian.

“Shaf!” replied his companion, in a kind of whisper, “he’s a pauchtie clot-heed.  I’ll have him at Haribee in a crack.”

The second speaker was as clearly a Scot who was struggling against the danger there might be of his speech bewraying him.

“Well, you’re pretty smart on ’im.  I never could rightly make aught of thy 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 resignation than he had previously exhibited, “I’ve no more cause to love ’im than yourself.  You saw ’im knock me down in the streets of Lancaster.”

“May ye hang him up for it, Bailiff Scroope,” replied the Scot.  “May ye hang him up for it on the top of Haribee!”

Robbie understood enough of this conversation to realize the character and pursuit of his travelling companions; but the details and tone of the dialogue were not of an interest sufficiently engrossing to keep him awake.  He dozed afresh, and in the unconsciousness of a fitful sleep he passed a good many miles of his dreary night ride.

A sudden glare in his eyes awoke him at one moment.  They were passing the village of Hollowbank.  Fires were lit on the road, and dark figures were crouching around them.  Robbie was too drowsy to ask the meaning 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 were more than a delusion of the ear, such as sometimes comes at the moment of awakening, he could not be sure until (now fully awake) he distinctly heard the Cumbrian use the name of Ralph Ray.

Robbie’s curiosity was instantly aroused, and in the effort to shake off the weight of his drowsiness he made a backward movement of the head, which was perceived by the strangers.  He was conscious that one of the men had risen, and was leaning over to the driver to ask who he himself 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, with questionable 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 and yourself?”