It was not simulated—not a paltry excuse to cover his guilt but a species of bigotry or superstition, which could not be eradicated.
Joe Doughty made no reply to the last observation. He knew perfectly well that it would be useless to argue the question with his companion, who throughout his life had been most obstinate and self-opinionated on the questions of evil spirits.
“Well,” said Joe, after a long pause, “ye be goin’, let us hope, where there be no warlocks, witches, gnomes, or evil speerits o’ any sort, so let that pass. Ha’ ye anything else to say—any other request to mek?”
The prisoner hesitated.
“I dunno as I have.”
“Think agen, I be in no hurry,” said Joe. “I haint in no hurry.”
“Noa, nuffin else,” said Chudley, “only do’ee speak a good word for me to maister and Miss Jamblin. I should loike to see un once more afore I dies.”
“I will tell ’em what you say, but can’t promise that they will come,” said Joe.
The two men shook hands cordially, and, after a few more words of counsel and consolation, Doughty passed out of the cell, and returned to Broxbridge.
He was greatly relieved in his mind at having seen the murderer of his young master. He had done his best to bring him to the bar of justice. Nevertheless, deep down in his heart there nestled a feeling of regret.