“Weel, man, it’s all as I telt ye; the country’s going to the dogs, and young Charles he’s cutting the heed off nigh a’most iv’ry man as fought for Oliver agen him.  And it’s as I telt ye aboot the spies of the government, there’s a spy ivrywhear—­maybe theer’s yan here now—­and auld Wilson he was nowt ner mair ner less ner a spy, and he meant to get a warrant for Ralph Ray, and that’s the lang and short on it.”

“I reckon Sim made the short on it,” said Reuben with a smirk.  “He scarce knew what a good turn he was doing for young Ralph yon neet in Martinmas.”

“But don’t they say Ralph saved Wilson’s life away at the wars?” said Monsey.  “Why could he want to inform against him and have him hanged?”

“A dog winnet yowl an ye hit him with a bone, but a spy is worse ner ony dog,” answered Matthew sententiously.

“But why could he wish to do it?”

“His fratch with Angus, that was all.”

“There must have been more than that, Matthew, there must.”

“I never heeard on it, then.”

“Old Wilson must have had money on him that night,” said Monsey, who had been looking gravely into the fire, his hands clasped about his knees.  Encouraged by this support of the sapient idea he had hinted at, the shepherd who had spoken before broke in with, “Where else did he get it I say?”

“Ye breed of the cuckoo,” said Matthew, “ye’ve gat no rhyme but yan.”

Amid the derisive laughter that followed, the door of the inn was again opened, and in a moment more Ralph Ray stood in the middle of the floor with Simeon Stagg in his arms.  Rotha was behind, pale but composed.  Every man in the room rose to his feet.  The landlord stepped forward, with no pleasant expression on his face; and from an inner room his wife came bustling up.  Little Monsey stood clutching and twitching his fingers.  Old Matthew had let the pipe drop out of his mouth, and it lay broken on the hearth.

“He has fainted,” said Ralph, still holding his burden; “turn that bench to the fire.”

No one stirred.  Every one stood for the moment as if stupefied.  Sim’s head hung over Ralph’s arm:  his face was as pale as death.

“Out of the way,” said Ralph, brushing past a great lumbering fellow, with his mouth agape.

The company found their tongues at last.  Were they to sit with “this hang-gallows of a tailor”?  The landlord, thinking himself appealed to, replied that he “couldn’t hev na brulliment” in his house.

“There need be no broil,” said Ralph, laying the insensible form on a seat and proceeding to strip off the wet outer garments.  Then turning to the hostess, he said,—­

“Martha, bring me water, quick.”

Martha turned about and obeyed him without a word.

“He’ll be better soon,” said Ralph to Robbie Anderson.  He was sprinkling water on the white face that lay before him.  Robbie had recovered his wakefulness, and was kneeling at Sim’s feet, chafing his hands.