“You carry a bottle of liquor somewhere,” cried Garth; “that’s why they follow you.”

Wearied out by such a shrieking storm of discord, one of the three Quakers—­a little man with quick eyes and nervous lips—­made his way through the crowd to where the blacksmith stood at the outskirts of it.  Garth propped his back against the wall of the inn and laughed hysterically at the preacher’s remonstrance:  “Woe to thee and such as thee when God’s love passes away from thee.”

Garth replied with a mocking blasphemy too terrible for record.  He repeated it, shouted it, screamed it.

In sheer horror the Quaker dropped on his knees in front of the blacksmith and muttered a prayer that was almost inaudible:—­

“God grant that the seven devils, yea seven times seven, may come out of him!”

Then Garth was silent for a moment.

“I knew such a one as thou art five years ago,” said the Quaker; “and where thinkest thou he died?”

“Where?” said Garth, with a drunken hiccup.

“But he was a saved man at last—­saved by the light with which Christ enlightened all men—­saved—­”

“Where?” repeated Garth, with a hideous imprecation.

“On the gallows—­he had killed his own father—­he was—­”

“Curse you!  Curse you on earth and in hell!”

The people who had crowded round held their hands to their ears to shut out the fearful blasphemies.  Garth, sobered somewhat by rage which was no longer assumed but real, pushed them aside and strode down the lane.

Rotha turned away from the crowd and walked towards Shoulthwaite.  Before her, at fifty paces, the blacksmith tramped doggedly on, with head towards the ground.  Drunk, mad, devilish as at this moment he might be, Rotha felt an impulse to overtake him.  She knew not what power prompted her, or what idea or what hope.  Never before had she felt an instinct drawing her to this man.  Yet she wished to speak with him now.  Would she had done so!  Would she had done so—­not for his sake or yet for hers—­but now, even now, while the impieties were hot on his burning lips!

Rotha ran a step or two and stopped.  Garth shambled sullenly on.  He never lifted his eyes to the sky.

When he reached his home he threw himself on the skemmel drawn up to the hearth.  He was sober now.  His mother had been taking her Sunday afternoon’s sleep on the settle, which stood at one side of the kitchen.  His noisy entrance awoke her.  He broke the peat with the peat-stick and kicked it into the fire.

“What’s come ower thee?” said Mrs. Garth, opening her eyes and yawning.

“What’s come over you more like?” growled Joe.

“What now?”

“Do you sell your own flesh and blood?” said Joe.  “Sell?  What’s thy mare’s nest now, thou weathercock?  One wouldn’t think that butter wad melt in thy mouth sometimes, and then agen—­”

“I’m none so daft as daftly dealt with, mother,” interrupted the blacksmith.