Old Mathew grumbled something under his breath.

There was a long silence.  Ralph had rarely been heard to speak so bitterly.  It was clear that opposition had gone far enough.  Sim’s watery eyes were never for an instant still.  Full of a sickening apprehension, they cast furtive glances into every face.  The poor creature seemed determined to gather up into his wretched breast the scorn that was blasting it.  The turf on the hearth gave out a great heat, but the tailor shivered as with cold.  Then Ralph reached the coat and cap, and, after satisfying himself that they were dry, he handed them back to Sim, who put them on.  Perhaps he had mistaken the act, for, rising to his feet, Sim looked into Ralph’s face inquiringly, as though to ask if he might go.

“Not yet, Sim,” said Ralph.  “You shall go when I go.  You lodge with me to-night.”

Monsey in the corner looked aghast, and crept closer under the flitch of bacon that hung above him.

“Men,” said Ralph, “hearken here.  You call it a foul thing to kill a man, and so it is.”

Monsey turned livid; every one held his breath.  Ralph went on,—­

“Did you ever reflect that there are other ways of taking a man’s life besides killing him?”

There was no response.  Ralph did not seem to expect one, for he continued,—­

“You loathe the man who takes the blood of his fellow-man, and you’re right so to do.  It matters nothing to you that the murdered man may have been a worse man than the murderer.  You’re right there too.  You look to the motive that inspired the crime.  Is it greed or revenge?  Then you say, ‘This man must die.’  God grant that such horror of murder may survive among us.”  There was a murmur of assent.

“But it is possible to kill without drawing blood.  We may be murderers and never suspect the awfulness of our crime.  To wither with suspicion, to blast with scorn, to dog with cruel hints, to torture with hard looks’,—­this is to kill without blood.  Did you ever think of it?  There are worse hangmen than ever stood on the gallows.”

“Ay, but he’s shappin’ to hang hissel’,” muttered Matthew Branthwaite.  And there was some inaudible muttering among the others.

“I know what you mean,” Ralph continued.  “That the guilty man whom the law cannot touch is rightly brought under the ban of his fellows.  Yes, it is Heaven’s justice.”

Sim crept closer to Ralph, and trembled perceptibly.

“Men, hearken again,” said Ralph.  “You know I’ve spoken up for Sim,” and he put his great arm about the tailor’s shoulders; “but you don’t know that I have never asked him, and he has never said whether he is innocent or not.  The guilty man may be in this room, and he may not be Simeon Stagg.  But if he were my own brother—­my own father—­”

Old Matthew’s pipe had gone out; he was puffing at the dead shaft.  Sim rose up; his look of abject misery had given place to a look of defiance; he stamped on the floor.