“Gone, you say?” said Rotha.  “I fear that is the worst news of all, Matthew.”

But now there was the rattle of a wagon on the lonnin.  A moment later the door was thrown open, and Liza Branthwaite stood in the porch with Reuben Thwaite behind her.

“Here’s Robbie Anderson back home in Reuben’s cart,” said Liza, catching her breath.

“Fetch him in,” said Matthew.  “Is he grown shy o’ t’yance?”

“That’s mair nor my share, Mattha,” said Reuben.  “The lad’s dylt out—­fair beat, I tell thee; I picked him up frae the brae side.”

“He can scarce move hand or foot,” cried Liza.  “Come, quick!”

Rotha was out at the wagon in a moment.

“He’s ill:  he’s unconscious,” she said.  “Where did you find him?”

“A couple of mile or so outside Carlisle,” answered Reuben.

Rotha staggered, and must have fallen but for Matthew, who at the moment came up behind her.

“I’ll tell thee what it is, lass,” said the old man, “thoo’rt like to be bad thysel’, and varra bad, too.  Go thy ways back to the fire.”

“Summat ails Robbie, no doubt about it,” said Reuben.

“Of course summat ails him,” said Mattha, with an insinuating emphasis on the word.  “He nivver were an artistic drunkard, weren’t Bobbie.”

“He’s been ram’lin’ and ram’lin’ all the way home,” continued Reuben.  “He’s telt ower and ower agen of summat ’at were fifty yards north of the bridge.”

“We must take him home,” said Liza, who came hurrying from the house with a blanket over her arm.  “Here, cover him with this, Rotha can spare it.”

In a minute more Robbie’s insensible form was wrapped round and round.

“Give him room to breathe,” said Mattha; “I declare ye’re playing at pund-o’-mair-weight with the lad!” he added as Rotha came up with a sheepskin and a shawl.

“The night is cold, and he has all but three miles to ride yet!” said the girl.

“He lodges with ’Becca Rudd; let’s be off,” said Liza, clambering into the cart by the step at the shaft.  “Come up, father; quick!”

“What, Bobbie, Bobbie, but this is bad wark, bad wark,” said Mattha, when seated in the wagon.  “Hod thy tail in the watter, lad, and there’s hope for thee yit.”

With this figurative expression Mattha settled himself for the drive.  Rotha turned to Reuben Thwaite.

“At Carlisle, did you hear anything—­meet anybody?” she asked.

“Baith,” said Reuben, with a twinkle which was lost in the darkness.

“I mean from Wythburn.  Did you meet anybody from—­did you see Ralph or my father?”

“Nowther.”

“Nor hear of them?”

“No—­wait—­deary me, deary me, now ’at I mind it—­I nivver thought of it afore—­I heeard ’at a man had been had up at the Toon Hall and taken to the gaol.  It cannot be ‘at the man were—­no, no—­I’m ram’lin’ mysel sure-ly.”

“Ralph; it was Ralph!” said Rotha, trembling visibly.  “Be quick.  Good night!” “Ralph at Carlisle!” said Mattha.  “Weel, weel; after word comes weird.  That’s why the constables are gone, and that’s why Robbie’s come.  Weel, weel!  Up with thee, Reuben, and let us try the legs of this auld dobbin of thine.”