“Ralph told him to do it; I heard him myself,” said Monsey, from his place in the chimney-nook, where he sat bereft of his sportive spirit, yet quite oblivious of the important part which his own loquacity had unwittingly played in the direful tragedy.
“But never bother now. Bring me more ale, mistress: quick now, my lass.”
Robbie had risen once more, and was tramping across the floor in his excitement. “What's come over Robbie?” whispered Reuben to Matthew. “What fettle's he in—doldrums, I reckon.”
“Tak na note on him. Robbie's going off agen I'm afeart. He's broken loose. This awesome thing is like to turn the lad's heed, for he'd the say ower it all.”
“Come, lass, quick with the ale.”
“Ye've had eneuf, Robbie,” said the hostess. “Go thy ways home. Thou findst the beer very heady, lad. Thou shalt have more in the morning.”
“To-night, lass; I must have some to-night, that I must.”
“Robbie is going off agen, surely,” whispered Reuben. “It's a sorry sight when yon lad takes to the drink. He'll be deed drunk soon.”
“Say nowt to him,” answered Matthew. “He's fair daft to-neet.”
The evening was far advanced when the dalesmen rose to go.