“I can’t, Master Mort’n, sir. I dursn’t. It would get me into no end of trouble,” said Miggles desperately. “I can’t tell ye. I won’t, there!”
He threw Morton off and folded his arms upon his breast, looking at all defiantly.
“I suppose you know, my man,” said Barclay sternly, “that you will be summoned as a witness before the judge, and forced to speak?”
“No judge won’t make me speak unless I like,” said Miggles defiantly. “I tell you all I won’t say another word and get myself into trouble, so there!”
Just then Claire took a step or two forward, laid her hands upon Dick Miggles’ broad breast, and looked up in his great bronzed, bearded face.
The fisherman winced, and his wife hugged the child to her, and uttered a low sob.
“My poor dear father is lying in prison under sentence of death—my poor grey-haired old father,” she said softly. “Perhaps a word from you will save his life—will save mine, for—for my heart is breaking. I could not live if—if—I cannot say it,” she sobbed in a choking voice, as she sank upon her knees and raised her clasped hands to the great fellow. “Pray, pray, speak.”
Fisherman Dick’s face worked; he stared round him and out to sea; and then, with a low, hoarse sob, he roared out:
“Don’t, Miss Claire, don’t; I can’t abear it. I will speak. It was that big orficer as fought the dool with Mr Linnell here.”
“Rockley!” cried Morton wildly.