“Ess, ‘tis cold enough; an’ I’ve got to get back to Newton to-night.  An’ never breathe that man’s name no more.  I’ll shaw ’e wat ‘s a man an’ what ban’t.  Steal my true love, would ’e?—­God forgive un, I shaan’t—­not till we ‘m man an’ wife, anyway.  Then I might.  Give ’e up!  Be I a chap as chaanges?  Never—­never yet.”

Phoebe wept at these words and pressed Will to her heart.

“‘Tis strength, an’ fire, an’ racing blood in me to hear ’e, dear, braave heart.  I was that weak without ’e.  Now the world ’s a new plaace, an’ I doan’t doubt fust thought was right, for all they said.  I’ll meet ‘e as you bid me, an’ nothin’ shall ever keep me from ’e now—­nothing!”

“‘T is well said, Phoebe; an’ doan’t let that anointed scamp kiss ’e more ‘n he must.  Be braave an’ cunnin’, an’ keep Miller from smelling a rat.  I’d like to smash that man myself now wheer he stands,—­Grimbal I mean,—­but us must be wise for the present.  Wipe your shiny eyes an’ keep a happy faace to ’em, an’ never let wan of the lot dream what’s hid in ‘e.  Cock your li’l nose high, an’ be peart an’ gay.  An’ let un buy you what he will,—­’t is no odds; we can send his rubbish back again arter, when he knaws you’m another man’s wife.  Gude-bye, Phoebe dearie; I’ve done what ’peared to me a gert deed for love of ’e; but the sight of ’e brings it down into no mighty matter.”

“You’ve saved my life, Will—­saved all my days; an’ while I’ve got a heart beating ‘t will be yourn, an’ I’ll work for ‘e, an’ slave for ’e, an’ think for ‘e, an’ love ‘e so long as I live—­an’ pray for ’e, tu, Will, my awn!”

He parted from her as she spoke, and she, by an inspiration, hurried towards the approaching crowd that the trampled marks of the snow where she had been standing might not be noted under the gleam of torches and lanterns.

John Grimbal’s prophecy was happily not fulfilled in its gloomy completeness:  nobody had blown his head off; but Billy Blee’s prodigality of ammunition proved at last too much for the blunderbuss of the bygone coach-guard, and in its sudden annihilation a fragment had cut the gunner across the face, and a second inflicted a pretty deep flesh-wound on his arm.  Neither injury was very serious, and the general escape, as John Grimbal pointed out, might be considered marvellous, for not a soul save Billy himself had been so much as scratched.

With Martin Grimbal on one side and Mr. Chapple upon the other, the wounded veteran walked slowly and solemnly along.  The dramatic moments of the hour were dear to him, and while tolerably confident at the bottom of his mind that no vital hurt had been done, he openly declared himself stricken to death, and revelled in a display of Christian fortitude and resignation that deceived everybody but John Grimbal.  Billy gasped and gurgled, bid them see to the bandages, and reviewed his past life with ingenuous satisfaction.

“Ah, sawls all! dead as a hammer in an hour.  ’T is awver.  I feel the life swelling out of me.”