"Innocent we be, but where the Deemster comes there's not a ha'p'orth to choose between you and us."

Dan's face flushed, and he answered warmly, "Men, don't let your miserable fears make cowards of you. What have you done? Nothing. You are innocent. Yet how are you bearing yourselves? Like guilty men. If I were innocent do you think I would skulk away in the mountains?"

"Aisy, sir, take it aisy. Maybe you'd rather run like a rat into a trap.

Cowards? Well, pozzible, pozzible. There's nothing like having a wife and a few childers for making a brave chap into a bit of a skunk. But we'll lave 'cowards' alone if you plaze."

Quilleash made a dignified sweep of the back of his hand, while the other men said, "Better, better."

"Why have you brought me here?" said Dan.

"There isn't a living sowl knows where you are, and when they find you're missing at the Castle they'll say you've thought better of it and escaped."

"Why have you brought me here?" Dan repeated.

"The Whitehaven boat left Ramsey after we dropped anchor in the bay last night, and they'll say you've gone off to England."

"Tell me why you have brought me to this place."

"We are alone and can do anything we like with you, and n.o.body a ha'p'orth the wiser."

"What do you mean to do?"

Then they told him of the alternative of life or death. There was nothing against him but his own confession. If he but held his tongue there was not enough evidence to hang a cat. Let him only promise to plead "Not guilty" when the trial came on, and they were ready to go back with him and stand beside him. If not--

"What then?" Dan asked.

"Then we'll be forced--" said Quilleash, and he stopped.

"Well?"

"I'm saying we'll be forced--" He stopped again.

"Out with it, man alive," Teare broke in--"forced to shoot him like a dog."

"Well, that's only spakin' the truth anyway," said Quilleash, quietly.

Davy Fayle leapt up from the fire with a cry of horror. But Dan was calm and resolute.

"Men, you don't know what you're asking. I can not do it."

"Aisy sir, aisy, and think agen. You see we're in if you're in, and who's to know who's deepest?"

"G.o.d knows it, and he will never allow you to suffer."

"We've childers and wives looking to us, and who can tell how they'd fend in the world if we were gone?"

"You're brave fellows, and I'm sorry for the name I gave you."

"Shoo! Lave that alone. Maybe we spoke back. Let's come to the fac's."

They stated their case again and with calm deliberation. He asked how it could mend their case if his life was taken. They answered him that they would go back and surrender, and stand their trial and be acquitted.

Those four men were as solemn a tribunal as ever a man stood before for life or death. Not a touch of pa.s.sion, hardly a touch of warmth, disturbed their rude sense of justice.

"We're innocent, but we're in it, and if you stand to it we must stand to it, and what's the use of throwing your life away?"

Dan looked into their haggard faces without wavering. He had gone too far to go back now. But he was deeply moved.

"Men," he said, "I wish to G.o.d I could do what you ask, but I can not, and, besides, the Almighty will not let any harm come to you."

There was a pause, and then old Quilleash said with quiet gravity, "I'm for religion myself, and singing hymns at whiles, and maybe a bit of a spell at the ould Book, but when it comes to trusting for life, d----d if I don't look for summat substantial."

As little was their stubborn purpose to be disturbed by spiritual faith as Dan's resolution was to be shaken by bodily terrors. They gave him as long to decide as it took a man to tell a hundred. The counting was done by Teare amid dead silence of the others.

Then it was that, thinking rapidly, Dan saw the whole terrible issue.

His mind went back to the visit of the Bishop to the castle, and to the secret preparations that had been made for his own escape. He remembered that the sumner had delivered up his keys to the Bishop, and that the Bishop had left the door of the cell open. In a quick glance at the facts he saw but too plainly that if he never returned to take his trial it would be the same to his father as if he had accepted the means of escape that had been offered him. The Bishop, guilty in purpose, but innocent in fact, would then be the slave of any scoundrel who could learn of his design. Though his father had abandoned his purpose, he would seem to have pursued it, and the people whom he had bribed to help him would but think that he had used other instruments. There could be only one explanation of his absence--that he escaped; only one means of escape--the Bishop; only one way of saving the Bishop from unmerited and life-long obloquy--returning to his trial; and only one condition of going back alive--promising to plead "Not guilty" to the charge of causing the death of Ewan.

It was an awful conflict of good pa.s.sions with pa.s.sions that were not bad. At one moment the sophistry took hold of him that, as his promise was being extorted by bodily threats, it could not be binding on his honor; that he might give the men the word they wanted, go back to save his father, and finally act at the trial as he knew to be best. But at the next moment in his mind's eye he saw himself in the prisoner's dock by the side of these five brave fellows, all standing for their lives, all calmly trusting in his promise, and he heard himself giving the plea that might send them to their deaths. Better any consequences than such treachery. Truth it must be at all costs; truth to them and to himself.

And as for the Bishop, when did the Almighty ask for such poor help as the lie of a blood-stained criminal to save the honor of a man of G.o.d?

It was a terrible crisis of emotion, but it was brief. The counting ended, and Quilleash called for the answer.

"No, I can not do it--G.o.d forgive me, I wish I could," said Dan, in a burst of impatience.

It was said. The men made no reply to it. There was awful quiet among them. They began to cast lots. Five copper coins of equal size, one of them marked with a cross scratched with the point of a nail, they put into the bag. One after one they dipped a hand and drew out a coin, and every man kept his fist clenched till all had drawn. The lad was not for joining, but the men threatened him, and he yielded. Then all hands were opened together.

The lot had fallen to Davy Fayle. When he saw this, his simple face whitened visibly and his lip lagged very low. Old Quilleash handed him the gun, and he took it in a listless way, scarcely conscious of what was intended.

"What's goin' doing?" he asked vacantly.

The men told him that it was for him to do it.

"Do what?" he asked, dazed and stupid.

Shamefully, and with a touch of braggadocio, they told what he had to do, and then his vacant face became suddenly charged with pa.s.sion, and he made a shriek of terror and let the gun fall. Quilleash picked the gun from the ground and thrust it back into Davy's hand.

"You've got to do it," he said; "the lot's fallen to you, and it's bad work flying in the face of fate."

At first Davy cried that nothing on G.o.d's earth would make him do it; but suddenly he yielded, took the gun quickly, and was led to his place three of four paces in front of where Dan stood with his arms bound at his sides, his face of an ashy whiteness and his eyes fearful to look upon.

"I can't kill him while he's tied up like that," said Davy. "Loose him, and then I'll shoot."

The men had been startled by Davy's sudden acquiescence, but now they understood it. Not by so obvious a ruse were they to be deceived. They knew full well that Dan as a free man was a match for all four of them unarmed.

"You're meaning to fire over his head," they said to Davy; and carried away by his excitement, and without art to conceal his intention, the lad cried hysterically, "That's the truth, and so I am."

The men put their heads together, and there was some hurried whispering.

At the next minute they had laid hold of Davy, bound him as Dan was bound, and put him to stand at Dan's side. This they did with the thought that Davy was now Dan's accomplice.