is but justice that _I_ should die.
But that _you_ should die also--you that are as innocent as the babe
unborn--God will never look down on it, I tell you. God will never
witness it; never, never!"

At that moment the organ of the chapel of the castle burst on the ear.
It was playing for afternoon service. Then the voices of the choir
came, droned and drowsed and blurred, across the green and through the
thick walls of the tower. The sacred harmonies swept up to them in
their cell as the intoned Litanies sweep down a long cathedral aisle
to those who stand under the sky at its porch. Deep, rich, full, pure,
and solemn. The voice of peace, peace, and rest.

The two men shut their eyes and listened.

In that world on which they had turned their backs men were
struggling, men were fighting, men's souls were being torn by passion.
In that world to which their faces were set no haunting, hurrying
footsteps ever fell; no soul was yet vexed by fierce fire, no dross of
budded hope was yet laid low. All was rest and peace.

The gaoler knocked. A visitor was here to see Ralph. He had secured
the permission of the under sheriff to see him for half an hour alone.

Sim rose, and prepared to follow the gaoler.

"No," said Ralph, motioning him back; "it is too late for secrets to
come between you and me. He must stay," he added, turning to the
gaoler.

A moment later Robbie Anderson entered. He was deeply moved.

"I was ill and insensible at the time of the trial," he said.

Then he told the long story of his fruitless quest.

"My evidence might have saved you," he said. "Is it yet too late?"

"Yes, it is too late," said Ralph.

"I think I could say where the warrant came from."

"Robbie, remember the vow you took never to speak of this matter
again."

At mention of the warrant, Sim had once more crept up eagerly. Ralph
saw that the hope of escape still clung to him. Would that muddy
imperfection remain with him to the last?

"Robbie, if you ever had any feeling for me as a friend and comrade,
let this thing lie forever undiscovered in your mind."

Unable to speak, the young dalesman bent his head.

"As for Sim, it wounds me to the soul. But for myself, what have I now
to live for? Nothing. I tried to save the land to my mother and
brother. How is she?"

"Something better, as I heard."

"Poor mother! And--Rotha--is she--"

"She is well."

"Thank God! Perhaps when these sad events are long gone by, and have