Was the sky gloomy?  Did a storm threaten?  Were the murmuring rivers and the roaring ghylls telling to Robbie’s ear the hopeless tale that lay cold and silent at his heart?  No!

The sun arose and sparkled over the white landscape.  It thawed the stiff boughs of the trees, and the snow dropped from them in gracious drops like dew.  All nature seemed glad—­cruelly, mockingly, insensately glad—­lightsome, jubilant.  The birds forsook their frost-bound nests, and sang cheerily in the clear morning air.  One little linnet—­so very little—­perched on a delicate silver birch, and poured its full soul out of its liquid throat.

Robbie toiled painfully along with a feeble step, and with nerveless despondency on every feature of his face—­his coat flying open to his woollen shirt; one of his hands thrust with his pipe into his belt; the other hand dragging after him a heavy staff; his cap pushed back from his hot forehead.

When he walked listlessly into Carlisle it was through the Botcher-gate on the south.  The clock of the cathedral was striking ten.  Robbie passed along the streets scarcely knowing his own errand or destination.  Without seeking for it he came upon the old Town Hall.  Numbers of people were congregated in the Market Place outside, and crowds were hurrying up from the adjacent streets.  Robbie had only once been in Carlisle before, but he felt convinced that these must be unaccustomed occurrences.  He asked a townsman standing near him what the tumult meant.  The man could tell him nothing.  Then he asked another and another spectator of the scene in which there appeared to be nothing to see, but all seemed as ignorant as himself.  Nevertheless there was an increasing commotion.

An old stone cross, raised high on steps, stood in the Market Place, and Robbie walked up to it and leaned against it.  Then he was conscious that word had gone through the crowd that a famous culprit had surrendered.  According to some authorities the culprit was a thief, according to others a murderer; some said that he was a forger, and some said a traitor, and some that he was another of the regicides, and would be sent on to London.

On one point only was there any kind of agreement, and that was that the culprit had voluntarily surrendered to a warrant issued for his arrest.

The commotion reached its climax when the doors of the old hall were seen to open and a company of soldiers and civilians passed out.

It was a guard for the prisoner, who was being taken to the common gaol to await his trial.

A dull, aching, oppressive pain lay at Robbie’s heart.  He climbed on to the cross and looked over the people’s heads at the little company.

The prisoner was Ralph Ray.  With a firm step, with upright and steadfast gaze, he walked between two soldiers; and close at his heels, with downcast eyes, Simeon Stagg toiled along.

Robbie’s quest was at an end.