"There's not a man of you who is not beholden to Parson Christian," said Hugh, sternly. He twisted sharply round upon one graybeard whose laugh still rumbled between his teeth. "Reuben Rae, who nursed your sick wife? John Proudfoot," to the blacksmith, "what about your child down with the fever?" His quick eye traversed the parlor, and more than one lusty crony was fain to bury his face in his breast. "Yet you laugh, brave fellows as you are, when the good man's house is broken into by a thief." Drayton took a swift stride toward him. "Drop it, and quick!" he shouted. Hugh Ritson governed himself with an effort. "I'm not here to brawl," he said quietly. "Pigeon-livered blatherskite!--that's what I call ye--d'ye hear?" said Drayton. Hugh's face flinched, but he turned on his heel, and was on the road at the next instant. Drayton followed him out, laughing boisterously. Hugh made one quick step backward and shut the door; then he turned about on Drayton, whose cruel face could be dimly seen in the hazy red light that came through the blinds. "You have tried to torture me," he said, "just as you would hang a dog by its tail, or draw the teeth of a rat. You have threatened with worse torture a good and loyal woman. You are a scoundrel, and you know it! But even you would hesitate if you knew for certain who or what you are. Let me tell you again, now, when we are alone, and while I have no personal interest to serve: You are the man whose name I gave you--Paul Lowther, son of Robert Lowther--and that lady, my brother's wife, whom for reason of profit you would compel to live under the same roof with you, is your own sister!" Drayton's loud guffaw rang out above the wind's moan in the trees. His cronies within heard it and listened. "It's a rare old story, that is. Let me see; you've told it before, I fancy." "Then it was a lie; now it's God's truth!" said Hugh. Drayton laughed again. "And then it was believed, but now it's not. No, no, Master Hugh, it won't pass." "We will see." Hugh Ritson had swung about and was gone. Drayton went back to his friends. "Hasn't the pluck of a pigeon when it comes to the push," he muttered. "Ey, he wears a bonny white feather in his cap, for sure," said old Reuben Rae. "No fight in'im--no'but tongue lather," said John, the blacksmith. * * * * * Hugh Ritson walked through the darkness to the pit-brow. The glow of the furnace lighted up the air to the south, and showed vaguely the brant sides of the fell; the dull thud of the engine, the clank of the chain, and the sharp crack of the refuse tumbling down the bank from the banksman's barrow were the only sounds that rose above the wind's loud whistle. Gubblum was at the mouth of the shaft. "Oglethorpe," said Hugh, "how many of the gangs are below to-night?" "All but two--auld Reuben's and Jim South'et's." "Then they have chosen to work on?"