“Well, well, what next?”

“Nothing—­yes—­late the same night I carried him back to where I thought he had come from—­and that’s all!”

The little strength Garth had left was wellnigh spent.

“Would you sign a paper saying this?” asked Rotha, bending over him.

“Ey, if there would be any good in it.”

“It might save the lives of father and Ralph; but your mother would need to witness it.”

“She will do that for me,” said Garth feebly.  “It will be the last thing I’ll ask of her.  She will go herself and witness it.”

“Ey, ey,” sobbed the broken woman, who rocked herself before the fire.

Rotha took the pen and paper, and wrote, in a hand that betrayed her emotion,—­

“This is to say that I, Joseph Garth, being near my end, yet knowing well the nature of my act, do confess to having committed the crime of killing the man known as James Wilson, for whose death Ralph Ray and Simeon Stagg stand condemned.”

“Can you sign it now, Joe?” asked Rotha, as tenderly as eagerly.

Garth nodded assent.  He was lifted to a sitting position.  Rotha spread the paper before him, and then supported him from behind with her arms.

He took the pen in his graspless hand, and essayed to write.  Oh, the agony of that effort!  How every futile stroke of that pen went to the girl’s heart like a stab of remorse!  The name was signed at length, and in some sorry fashion.  The dying man was restored to his pillow.

Peace came to him there and then.

The clock struck eight.

Rotha hurried out of the house and down the road to the bridge.  The moon had just broken over a ridge of black cloud.  It was bitterly cold.

Willy Ray stood with his horse at the appointed place.

“How agitated you are, Rotha; you tremble like an aspen,” he said.  “And where are your shawls?”

“Look at this paper,” she said.  “You can scarce see to read it here; but it is a confession.  It states that it was poor Joe Garth who committed the murder for which father and Ralph are condemned to die at daybreak.”

“At last!  Thank God!” exclaimed Willy.

“Take it—­put it in your breast—­keep it safe as you value your eternal soul—­ride to Carlisle as fast as your horse will carry you, and place it instantly before the sheriff.”

“Is it signed?”

“Yes.”

“And witnessed?”

“The witness will follow in person—­a few hours—­a very few—­and she will be with you there.”

“Rotha, God has put it into your heart to do this thing, and He has given you more than the strength of a strong man!”

“In how many hours might one ride to Carlisle at the fastest—­in the night and in a cart?” asked the girl eagerly.

“Five, perhaps, if one knew every inch of the way.”

“Then, before you set out, drive round to Armboth, and ask Mr. Jackson to bring his wagon across to this bridge at midnight.  Let him not say ‘No’ as he hopes for his salvation!  And now, good bye again, and God speed you on your journey!”