When saying this the speaker turned, as though with an involuntary and unconscious gaze, towards the spot where Rotha stood.  He had pushed past the girl on coming through the porch without acknowledging her salutation.

“And if Angus Ray had lived to become a justice,” continued the Reverend Nicholas, “it very likely must have been his duty before God and the King to apprehend his son Ralph on a charge of treason.”

Robbie Anderson, who was standing by, felt at that moment that it would very likely be his duty before long to take the priest by certain appendages of his priestly apparel, and carry him less than tenderly to a bed more soft than odorous.

“It must have been his duty, I repeat,” said his reverence, speaking with measured emphasis, “before God and the King.”

“Leave God oot on’t,” shouted Matthew.  “Ye may put that in when ye get intil yer pulpit, and then ye’ll deceive none but them that lippen till ye.  Don’t gud yersel wi’ God’s name.”

“It is written,” said his reverence, “’It is an abomination to kings to commit wickedness; for the throne is established by righteousness.’”

“Dus’ta think to knock me doon wi’ the Bible?” said Matthew with a touch of irreverence.  “I reckon ony cock may crouse on his own middenheed.  Ye mind me of the clerk at Tickell, who could argify none at all agen the greet Geordie Fox, so he up and broke his nose wi’ a bash of his family Bible.”

This final rejoinder proved too much for the minister, who rose, the repast being over, and stalked past Rotha into the adjoining chamber, where the widow and Willy sat in their sorrow.  The dalesmen looked after his retreating figure, and as the door of the inner room closed, they heard his metallic voice ask if the deceased had judiciously arranged his temporal affairs.

During the encounter between the weaver and the clergyman the company had outwardly observed a rigid neutrality.  Little Liza, it is true, had obviously thought it all the best of good fun, and had enjoyed it accordingly.  She had grinned and giggled just as she had done on the preceding Sunday when a companion, the only surviving child of Baptist parents now dead, had had the water sprinkled on her face at her christening in the chapel on the Raise.  But Luke Cockrigg, Reuben Thwaite, and the rest had remained silent and somewhat appalled.  The schoolmaster had felt himself called upon to participate in the strife, but being in the anomalous position of owing his official obligations to the minister and his convictions to the side championed by the weaver, he had contented him with sundry grave shakes of his big head, which shakes, being subject to diverse interpretations, were the least compromising expressions of opinion which his genius could suggest to him.  No sooner, however, had the door closed on the clergyman than a titter went round the table.  Matthew was still at a white heat.  Accustomed as he was to “tum’le” his neighbors at the Red Lion, he was now profoundly agitated.  It was not frequently that he brought down such rare game in his sport.