“No more now, man,” said Ralph, putting his arm about him. “You're safe, at least, and all will be well with you.”
“Wait. Nearer and nearer they came, nearer and nearer, till I knew they were above me, around me. Yet I kept close, I did, I almost felt their breath. Well, well, at last I saw two red eyes gleaming at me through the darkness—”
“You're feverish to-night, Sim,” interrupted Ralph.
“Then a great flash of lightning came. It licked the ground afore me—ay, licked. Then a burst of thunder—it must have been a thunderbolt—I couldn't hear the wind and sleet and water. I fainted, that must have been it. When I came round I groped about me where I lay—”
“A dream, Sim.”
“No, it was no dream! What was it I touched? I was delivered! Thank heaven, that death was not mine. I rose, staggered out, and fled.”
By the glimmering light from the windows of the inn—there came the sound of laughter from within—Ralph could see that hysterical tears coursed down the poor tailor's cheeks. Rotha stood aside, her hands covering her face.
“And, at last, when you could not meet me here, you went to Fornside for Rotha to seek me?” asked Ralph.
“Yes, I did. Don't despise me—don't do that.” Then in a supplicating tone he added,—
“I couldn't bear it from you, Ralph.”