The landlord lifted his curly-headed son (now fast asleep) from Sim’s knee, and left the room.

Sim’s excitement was plainly visible, and even Ralph could not conceal his own agitation.  Was he to be too late to do what it had been in his mind 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, room were but going off to Wythburn nine days in advance in order to be ready to carry into effect the intended confiscation immediately their instructions should reach them.  The real evils by which Ralph was surrounded were too numerous to allow of his wasting much apprehension on possible ones.

The din of the drinkers subsided at length, and toper after toper was helped to his bed.

Then blankets were brought into Ralph and Sim, and rough shakedowns were 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 the smouldering fire.

Ralph continued his perambulation to and fro, to and fro.  He thought again of what had occurred, and of what must soon occur to him and his—­of Wilson’s death—­his father’s death—­the flight of the horse on the fells—­all, all, centring somehow in himself.  There must be sin involved, though he knew not how—­sin and its penalty.  It was more and more clear that God’s hand was on him—­on him.  Every act of his own hand turned to evil, and those whom he would bless were cursed.  And this cruel scheme of evil—­this fate—­could it not be broken?  Was there no propitiation?  Yes, there was; there must be.  That thing which he was minded to do would be expiation in the sight of Heaven.  God would accept it for an atonement—­yes; and there was soft balm like a river of morning air in the thought.

* * * * *

Sim slept on, and Brown crouched over the fire, with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees.  There was not a motion within the house 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 frenzy in which his morbid idea had ended?  If so, it was the frenzy of a self-sacrifice that was sublimity itself.

At one moment Brown stirred in his seat and held his head aside, as though listening for some sound in the far distance.