‘O, he’s the—!’ whispered the people in the background, mentioning the name of an ominous public officer.  ’He’s come to do it!  ’Tis to be at Casterbridge jail to-morrow—­the man for sheep-stealing—­the poor clock-maker we heard of; who used to live away at Shottsford and had no work to do—­Timothy Summers, whose family were a-starving, and so he went out of Shottsford by the high-road, and took a sheep in open daylight, defying the farmer and the farmer’s wife and the farmer’s lad, and every man jack among ’em.  He’ (and they nodded towards the stranger of the deadly trade) ’is come from up the country to do it because there’s not enough to do in his own county-town, and he’s got the place here now our own county man’s dead; he’s going to live in the same cottage under the prison wall.’

The stranger in cinder-gray took no notice of this whispered string of observations, but again wetted his lips.  Seeing that his friend in the chimney-corner was the only one who reciprocated his joviality in any way, he held out his cup towards that appreciative comrade, who also held out his own.  They clinked together, the eyes of the rest of the room hanging upon the singer’s actions.  He parted his lips for the third verse; but at that moment another knock was audible upon the door.  This time the knock was faint and hesitating.

The company seemed scared; the shepherd looked with consternation towards the entrance, and it was with some effort that he resisted his alarmed wife’s deprecatory glance, and uttered for the third time the welcoming words, ‘Walk in!’

The door was gently opened, and another man stood upon the mat.  He, like those who had preceded him, was a stranger.  This time it was a short, small personage, of fair complexion, and dressed in a decent suit of dark clothes.

‘Can you tell me the way to—?’ he began:  when, gazing round the room to observe the nature of the company amongst whom he had fallen, his eyes lighted on the stranger in cinder-gray.  It was just at the instant when the latter, who had thrown his mind into his song with such a will that he scarcely heeded the interruption, silenced all whispers and inquiries by bursting into his third verse:-

’To-morrow is my working day,
Simple shepherds all —
To-morrow is a working day for me: 
For the farmer’s sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta’en,
And on his soul may God ha’ merc-y!’

The stranger in the chimney-corner, waving cups with the singer so heartily that his mead splashed over on the hearth, repeated in his bass voice as before:-

‘And on his soul may God ha’ merc-y!’

All this time the third stranger had been standing in the doorway.  Finding now that he did not come forward or go on speaking, the guests particularly regarded him.  They noticed to their surprise that he stood before them the picture of abject terror—­his knees trembling, his hand shaking so violently that the door-latch by which he supported himself rattled audibly:  his white lips were parted, and his eyes fixed on the merry officer of justice in the middle of the room.  A moment more and he had turned, closed the door, and fled.