Rotha could hear the beat of her own heart.  She plunged from behind the bush one step into the road.  Then she drew back.

The day was cold but dry, and Mrs. Garth heard the step in front of her.  She came walking on with apparent unconcern.  Rotha thought of her father and Ralph condemned to die as innocent men.

The truth that would set them free lay with seething dregs of falsehood at the bottom of this woman’s heart.  It should come up; it should come up.

When Mrs. Garth had reached the bridge Rotha stepped out and confronted her.  The woman gave a little start and then a short forced titter.

“Deary me, lass, ye mak a ghost of yersel’, coming and going sa sudden.”

“And you make ghosts of other people.”  Then, without a moment’s warning, Rotha looked close into her eyes and said, “Who killed James Wilson?  Tell me quick, quick.”

Mrs. Garth flinched, and for the instant looked confused.

“Tell me, woman, tell me; who killed him there—­there where you’ve been beating the ground to conceal the remaining traces of a struggle?”

“Go off and ask thy father,” said Mrs. Garth, recovering herself; and then she added, with a sneer, “but mind thou’rt quick, or he’ll never tell thee in this world.”  “Nor will you tell me in the next.  Woman, woman!” cried Rotha in another tone, “woman, have you any bowels?  You have no heart, I know; but can you stand by and be the death of two men who have never, never done you wrong?”

Rotha clutched Mrs. Garth’s dress in the agony of her appeal.

“You have a son, too.  Think of him standing where they stand, an innocent man.”

Rotha had dropped to her knees in the road, still clinging to Mrs. Garth’s dress.

“What’s all this to me, girl?  Let go yer hod, do you hear?  Will ye let go?  What wad I know about Wilson—­nowt.”

“It’s a lie,” cried Rotha, starting to her feet.  “What were you doing in his room at Fornside?”

“Tush, maybe I was only seeking that fine father of thine.  Let go your hod, do you hear?  Let go, or I’ll—­I’ll—­”

Rotha had dropped the woman’s dress and grasped her shoulders.  In another instant the slight pale-faced girl had pulled this brawny woman to her knees.  They were close to the parapet of the bridge, and it was but a few inches high.

“As sure as God’s in heaven,” cried Rotha with panting breath and flaming eyes, “I’ll fling you into this river if you utter that lie again.  Woman, give me the truth!  Cast away these falsehoods, that would blast the souls of the damned in hell.”

“Get off.  Wilta not?  Nay, then, but I’ll mak thee, and quick.”

The struggle was short.  The girl was flung aside into the road.

Mrs. Garth rose from her knees with a bitter smile on her lips.  “I mak na doubt ’at thou wouldn’t be ower keen to try the same agen,” she said, going off.  “Go thy ways to Doomsdale, my lass, and ax yer next batch of questions there.  I’ve just coom’t frae it mysel’, do you know?”