“For fault of wise men fools sit on the bench, or we should hev none of this,” continued Matthew. “I reckon some one that's here is nigh ax't oot by Auld Nick in the kirk of the nether world.”
“Then take care you're not there yourself to give something at the bridewain.”
Old Mathew grumbled something under his breath.
There was a long silence. Ralph had rarely been heard to speak so bitterly. It was clear that opposition had gone far enough. Sim's watery eyes were never for an instant still. Full of a sickening apprehension, they cast furtive glances into every face. The poor creature seemed determined to gather up into his wretched breast the scorn that was blasting it. The turf on the hearth gave out a great heat, but the tailor shivered as with cold. Then Ralph reached the coat and cap, and, after satisfying himself that they were dry, he handed them back to Sim, who put them on. Perhaps he had mistaken the act, for, rising to his feet, Sim looked into Ralph's face inquiringly, as though to ask if he might go.
“Not yet, Sim,” said Ralph. “You shall go when I go. You lodge with me to-night.”
Monsey in the corner looked aghast, and crept closer under the flitch of bacon that hung above him.
“Men,” said Ralph, “hearken here. You call it a foul thing to kill a man, and so it is.”
Monsey turned livid; every one held his breath. Ralph went on,—
“Did you ever reflect that there are other ways of taking a man's life besides killing him?”
There was no response. Ralph did not seem to expect one, for he continued,—