Sim had not seen the girls, and in the prevailing wind his quick ear had not caught the sound of their footsteps until they were nearly abreast of him. When he became fully conscious of their presence, Rotha was standing by his side, with her hand on his arm. Liza was a pace or two behind.
“Father,” said Rotha, “are you strong enough to make a long journey?”
Sim had turned his face full on his daughter's with an expression of mingled shame, contrition, and pride. It was as though his heart yearned for that love which he thought he had forfeited the right to claim.
In a few words Rotha explained the turn of events. Sim's agitation overpowered him. He walked to and fro in short, fitful steps, crying that there was no help, no help.
“I thought I saw three men leading three horses up High Seat from behind the smithy. It must have been those very taistrels, it must. I was looking at them the minute you came up. See, there they are—there beyond the ghyll on the mere side of yon big bowder. But they'll be at the top in a crack, that they will—and the best man in Wythburn will be taken—and there's no help, no help.”
The little man strode up and down, his long, nervous fingers twitching at his beard.
“Yes, but there is help,” said Rotha; “there must be.”
“How? How? Tell me—you're like your mother, you are—that was the very look she had.”
“Tell me, first, if Ralph intended to be on Stye Head or Wastdale Head.”
“He did—Stye Head—he left me to go there at daybreak this morning.”