Meanwhile, the old man glanced at his hand again, and, with a look of disgust, went through the action of wiping it.
“Why, doctor—doctor!” he whispered; “don’t say you’ve—!”
“I couldn’t help it, Moredock,” said North excitedly. “It was in the struggle: it was a fight for life. We were both mad with rage, and I—I struck him.”
“Ay, ay, doctor; but you needn’t ha’ hit him so hard. Look at the blood! Deary, deary; and all this trouble about a gel.”
“I don’t know how it happened,” panted North, clinging tightly to the old man’s arm. “I must have given him a terrible blow.”
“But it’s a hanging matter, doctor—a hanging matter!” whispered the sexton. “Don’t hold me, man; I didn’t do it! I won’t be dragged into it! I didn’t know you’d go and do that!”
“I didn’t mean to, Moredock. It was in my rage.”
“But it’s murder, doctor; it’s murder, and they’ll try you for your life!”
“It must not be known. We must—”
“Nay, nay: it isn’t we,” protested the old man. “It was you did it. I was skeered about you both getting wild, and I thought I’d be out of it, and came home.”