There was a bright light in his eyes. And surely victory was his at last. The burden was cast off forever. "Lord, give me rest," he murmured again, and the tongue that uttered the prayer spoke no more.

Rotha took his hand. His pulse sank--slower, slower, slower. His end was like the going out of a lamp--down, down, down--then a fitful flicker--and then--

Death, the merciful mediator; Death, the Just Judge; Death, the righter of the wronged; Death was here--here!

Mrs. Garth's grief was uncontrollable. The hard woman was as nerveless as a baby now. Yet it was not at first that she would accept the evidence of her senses. Reaching over the bed, she half raised the body in her arms.

"Why, he's dead, my boy he's dead!" she cried. "Tell me he's not dead, though he lies sa still."

Rotha drew her away, and, stooping, she kissed the cold wasted whitened lips.

At midnight a covered cart drove up to the cottage by the smithy. John Jackson was on the seat outside. Rotha and Mrs. Garth got into it.

Then they started away.

As they crossed the bridge and turned the angle of the road that shut out the sight of the darkened house they had left, the two women turned their heads towards it and their hearts sank within them as they thought of him whom they left behind. Then they wept together.

CHAPTER XLIX. PEACE, PEACE, AND REST.

In Carlisle the time of the end was drawing near. Throughout the death-day of the blacksmith at Wythburn the two men who were to die for his crime on the morrow sat together in their cell in the Donjon tower.

Ralph was as calm as before, and yet more cheerful. The time of atonement was at hand. The ransom was about to be paid. To break the hard fate of a life, of many lives, he had come to die, and death was here!

Bent and feeble, white as his smock, and with staring eyes, Sim continued to protest that G.o.d would not let them die at this time and in this place.

"If He does," he said, "then it is not true what they have told us, that G.o.d watches over all!"

"What is that you are saying, old friend?" returned Ralph. "Death comes to every one. The black camel kneels at the gate of all. If it came to some here and some there, then it would be awful indeed."

"But to die before our time is terrible, it is," said Sim.

"Before our time--what time?" said Ralph. "To-day or to-morrow--who shall say which is your time or mine?"

"Aye, but to die like this!" said Sim, and rocked himself in his seat.

"And is it not true that a short death is the sovereign good hap of life?"

"The shame of it--the shame of it," Sim muttered.

"That touches us not at all," said Ralph. "Only the guilty can feel the shame of a shameful death. No, no; death is kindest. And yet, and yet, old friend, I half repent me of my resolve. The fatal warrant, which has been the princ.i.p.al witness against us, was preserved in the sole hope that one day it might serve you in good stead. For your sake, and yours only, would to G.o.d that I might say where I came by it and when!"

"No, no, no," cried Sim, with a sudden access of resolution; "I _am_ the guilty man after all, and it is but justice that _I_ should die.

But that _you_ should die also--you that are as innocent as the babe unborn--G.o.d will never look down on it, I tell you. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion.

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 G.o.d! Perhaps when these sad events are long gone by, and have faded away into a dim memory, perhaps then she will be happy in my brother's love."

"w.i.l.l.y?" said Robbie, with look and accent of surprise.

Then there was a pause.

"She has been an angel," said Robbie feelingly.

"Better than that--she has been a woman; G.o.d bless and keep her!" said Ralph.