Then struggling once more to lift himself in bed, he cried, “Mother, tell her I did it, and not Ralph.  Tell them all that it was I myself who did it.  Tell them I was driven to it, as God is my judge.”

The old woman jumped up, and, putting her face close to her son’s, she whispered,—­

“Thou madman!  What wadsta say?”

“Mother, dear mother, my mother,” he cried, “think of what you would do; think of me standing, as I must soon stand—­very soon—­before God’s face with this black crime on my soul.  Let me cast it off from me forever.  Do not tempt me to hide it!  Rotha, pray with her; pray that she will not let me stand before God thus miserably burthened, thus red as scarlet with a foul, foul sin!”

Garth’s breath was coming and going like a tempest.  It was a terrible moment.  Rotha flung herself on her knees.  She had not been used to pray, but the words gushed from her.

“Dear Father in heaven,” she prayed, “soften the hearts of all of us here in this solemn hour.  Let us remember our everlasting souls.  Let us not barter them for the poor comforts of this brief life.  Father, thou readest all hearts.  No secret so secret, none so closely hidden from all men’s eyes, but Thou seest it and canst touch it with a finger of fire.  Help us here to reveal our sins to Thee.  If we have sinned deeply, forgive us in Thy heavenly mercy; in Thy infinite goodness grant us peace.  Let Thy angel hover over us even now, even now, now.”

And the angel of the Lord was indeed with them in that little cottage among the desolate hills.

Rotha rose up and turned to Garth.

“Under the shadow of death,” she said, “tell me, I implore you, how and when you committed the crime for which father and Ralph are condemned to die to-morrow.”

Mrs. Garth had returned once more to her seat.  The blacksmith’s strength was failing him.  His agitation had nigh exhausted him.  Tears were now in his eyes, and when he spoke in a feeble whisper, a sob was in his throat.

“He was my father,” he said, “God forgive me—­Wilson was my father—­and he left us to starve, mother and me; and when he came back to us here we thought Ralph Ray had brought him to rob us of the little that we had.”  “God forgive me, too,” said Mrs. Garth, “but that was wrong.”

“Wrong?” inquired the blacksmith.

“Ey, it came out at the trial,” muttered his mother.

Garth seemed overcome by a fresh flood of feeling.  Rotha lifted a basin of barley-water to his lips.

“Yes, yes; but how was it done—­how?”

“He did not die where they threw him—­Ralph—­Angus—­whoever it was—­he got up some while after and staggered to this house—­he said Ray had thrown him and he was hurt—­Ray, that was all.  He wanted to come in and rest, but I flung the door in his face and he fell.  Then he got up, and shrieked out something—­it was something against myself; he called me a bastard, that’s the fact.  Then it was as if a hand behind me pushed me on.  I opened the door and struck him.  I didn’t know that I had a hammer in my hand, but I had.  He fell dead.”