Jeffrey’s face became livid as he sprang to his feet.
“Stay where thou art,” said the brawny farmer, motioning him back. “Let’s have a look at thee. So thee’s a manslayer? Thou looks it.”
A terrible pause followed—the pause of a man who struggles for words that will not come.
He looked terrible indeed; with heaving chest and bloodless lips, and eyes like the eyes of a hunted wolf. At length he gasped—
“Liar!” and advanced towards the affrighted Jonah.
But the sturdy Yorkshire-man stepped between.
“Nay, nay,” said he, “one’s enough. Stay where thou art, and let him give chapter and verse—chapter and verse. He came to me last night, and said thou wast a murderer, and I’ve coom to see if thou art. Thou looks one, but maybe thou’rt right to call him a liar.”
“Ask him,” gasped Jonah, “what he did to his old schoolfellow, young Forrester, and then lot him call me a liar if he likes.”
“Dost hear, lad? What was it thee did to thy old schoolfellow young Forrester? That’s a fair question. Out with it.”
If Jeffreys had looked terrible a moment ago, he looked still more terrible now, as he sank with a groan onto the bench, and turned a sickened look on his accuser.