an, and you're
right so to do. It matters nothing to you that the murdered man may
have been a worse man than the murderer. You're right there too. You
look to the motive that inspired the crime. Is it greed or revenge?
Then you say, 'This man must die.' God grant that such horror of
murder may survive among us." There was a murmur of assent.

"But it is possible to kill without drawing blood. We may be murderers
and never suspect the awfulness of our crime. To wither with
suspicion, to blast with scorn, to dog with cruel hints, to torture
with hard looks',--this is to kill without blood. Did you ever think
of it? There are worse hangmen than ever stood on the gallows."

"Ay, but _he's_ shappin' to hang hissel'," muttered Matthew
Branthwaite. And there was some inaudible muttering among the others.

"I know what you mean," Ralph continued. "That the guilty man whom the
law cannot touch is rightly brought under the ban of his fellows. Yes,
it is Heaven's justice."

Sim crept closer to Ralph, and trembled perceptibly.

"Men, hearken again," said Ralph. "You know I've spoken up for Sim,"
and he put his great arm about the tailor's shoulders; "but you don't
know that I have never asked him, and he has never said whether he is
innocent or not. The guilty man may be in this room, and he may not be
Simeon Stagg. But if he were my own brother--my own father--"

Old Matthew's pipe had gone out; he was puffing at the dead shaft. Sim
rose up; his look of abject misery had given place to a look of
defiance; he stamped on the floor.

"Let me go; let me go," he cried.

Robbie Anderson came up and took him by the hand; but Sim's brain
seemed rent in twain, and in a burst of hysterical passion he fell
back into his seat, and buried his head in his breast.

"He'll be hanged with the foulest collier yet," growled one of the
men. It was Joe Garth again. He was silenced once more. The others had
begun to relent.

"I've not yet asked him if he is innocent," continued Ralph; "but this
persecution drives me to it, and I ask him now."

"Yes, yes," cried Sim, raising his head, and revealing an awful
countenance. A direful memory seemed to haunt every feature.

"Do you know the murderer?"

"I do--that is--what am I saying?--let me go."

Sim had got up, and was tramping across the floor. Ralph got up too,
and faced him.

"It is your duty, in the sight of Heaven, to give that man's name."

"No, no; heaven forbid," cried Sim.