y pulled at the reins of his horse, and brought it to a
stand.

"What are you gaping at now? Come, go along in front. Is this your
Scarf Gap?"

IV. Simeon Stagg had followed the three men closely enough to keep them in
view, and yet had kept far enough away to escape identification.
Ascending the Bleaberry Fell, he had descended into Watendlath, and
crossed under the "Bowder" stone as the men passed the village of
Rosthwaite. He had lost sight of them for a while as they went up
towards Honister, but when he had gained the breast of Grey Knotts he
could clearly descry them two miles away ascending the Scarf Gap. If
he could but pass Brandreth before they reached the foot of the Black
Sail he would have no fear of being seen, and, what was of more
consequence, he would have no doubt of being at Stye Head before them.
He could then get in between the Kirk Fell and the Great Gable long
before they could round the Wastdale Head and return to the pass.

But how weak he felt! How jaded these few miles had made him! Sim
remembered that he had eaten little for three days. Would his strength
outlast the task before him? It should; it must do so. Injured by
tyranny, the affections of this worn-out outcast among men had, like
wind-tossed trees, wound their roots about a rock from which no
tempest could tear them.

Sim's step sometimes quickened to a run and sometimes dropped to a
labored slouch. The deep declivities, the precipitous ascents, the
broad chasm-like basins, the running streams, the soft turf, had tried
sorely the little strength that remained to him. Sometimes he would
sit for a minute with his long thin hand pressed hard upon his heart;
then he would start away afresh, but rather by the impulse of
apprehension than by that of renewed strength.

Yes, he was now at the foot of Brandreth, and the horses and their
riders had not emerged above the Scarf. How hot and thirsty he felt!

Here stood a shepherd's cottage, the first human habitation he had
passed since he left Watendlath. Should he ask for some milk? It would
refresh and sustain him. As Sim stood near the gate of the cottage,
doubtful whether to go in or go on, the shepherd's wife came out.
Would she give him a drink of milk? Yes, and welcome. The woman looked
closely at him, and Sim shrank under her steady gaze. He was too far
from Wythburn to be dogged by the suspicion of crime, yet his
conscience tormented him. Did all the world, then, know that Sime