“Bravely, Sim; bravely, man; there,” he said, as the tailor regained some composure.
“You sha'n't go back to-night. How wet you are, though! There's not a dry rag to your body, man. You must first return with me to the fire at the Red Lion, and then we'll go—”
“No, no, no!” cried Sim; “not there either—never there; better the wind and rain, aye, better anything, than that.”
And he turned his head over his shoulder as though peering into the darkness behind. Ralph understood him. There were wilder companions for this poor hunted creature than any that lived on the mountains.
“But you'll never live through the night in clothes like these.”
Sim shivered with the cold; his teeth chattered; his lank hands shook as with ague.
“Never live? Oh, but I must not die, Ralph; no not yet—not yet.”
Was there, then, something still left in life that a poor outcast like this should cling to it?
“I'll go back with you,” he said more calmly. They turned, and with Sim between them Ralph and Rotha began to retrace their steps. They had not far to go, when Sim reeled like a drunken man, and when they were within a few paces he stopped.
“No,” he said, “I can't.” His breath was coming quick and fast.