The tears came again. The direful agony of Sim's soul seemed at length to conquer him, and he fell to the ground insensible. In an instant Rotha was on her knees in the hardening road at her father's side; but she did not weep.
“We have no choice now,” she said in a broken voice.
“None,” answered Ralph. “Let me carry him in.”
When the door of the inn had closed behind Ralph as he went out with Rotha, old Matthew Branthwaite, who had recovered his composure after Monsey's song, and who had sat for a moment with his elbow on his knee, his pipe in his hand and his mouth still open, from which the shaft had just been drawn, gave a knowing twitch to his wrinkled face as he said,—
“So, so, that's the fell the wind blows frae!”
“Blow low, my black feutt,” answered Monsey, “and don't blab.”
“When the whins is oot of blossom, kissing's oot o' fashion—nowt will come of it,” replied the sage on reflection.
“Wrong again, great Solomon!” said Monsey. “Ralph is not the man to put away the girl because her father is in disgrace.”
“Do ye know he trystes with the lass?”
“Not I.”