Mrs. Garth spoke peevishly, rose from her seat, and walked between Rotha and the bed.
Garth's wide eyes were still riveted on the girl's face.
“Never mind that she's not asked,” he said; “but what does she mean, mother? What lie is it that she comes to tell us!”
“No lie, Mr. Garth,” said Rotha, with tearful eyes. “Ralph and father are condemned to die, and they are innocent.”
“Tush! get away wi' thee!” mumbled Mrs. Garth, brushing the girl aside with her elbow. The blacksmith glared at her, and seemed to gasp for breath.
“It is a lie; mother, tell her it is a lie.”
“God knows it is not,” cried Rotha passionately.
“Say I believed it,” said Garth, rising convulsively on one elbow, with a ghastly stare; “say I believed that the idiots had condemned them to death for a crime they never committed—never; say I believed it—but it's a lie, that's what it is. Girl, girl, how can you come with a lie on your lips to a poor dying man? Cruel! cruel! Have you no pity, none, for a wretched dying man?”
The tears rolled down Rotha's cheeks. Mrs. Garth returned to her stool, and rocked herself and moaned.
The blacksmith glared from one to the other, the sweat standing in heavy beads on his forehead.