Little was now said openly about the two men incarcerated in York Castle; but as if an imp pushed him to it, Cope himself seemed unable to keep his tongue off it. It chanced that somebody’s wain-pole had cracked (or it might have been a loom-timber), and a smith had made an iron collar to shrink over the split portion. The smith, sitting in the inn and toying with the ring as he talked, had set it over his wrist like a bracelet; and all at once Matthew Moon took his wrist, removed the fetter, handed it back to him, and bade him keep it in his pocket. Then, looking up, he caught Cope’s eye. The exciseman smiled. “I think you and I were thinking the same thing, Mr. Moon,” he said. The merchant blazed up suddenly and passionately. “God send me better thoughts than yours!” he cried. “Why,” the dwarf remarked, “I was thinking of the pleasure of scratching your leg when you get them off again----” But Moon waited for no more. He sprang to his feet, his hand raised to strike, and his face black with anger. “Ye’ll not be warned, ye fool?” he cried in a breaking voice. There was no question of Cope’s physical courage. The merchant could have crushed him, and every man seemed disturbed to find himself so far out of his reckoning. Instead of showing fear, Cope covered, bathed, enveloped the merchant in one baleful look, and said in an even voice, “Sit down.” The door opened, and Sally Northrop stood in the entry. “What’s to do?” she cried; and Matthew’s eyes came slowly round to her. His hand fell, and he moved slowly backward to his seat. “Nothing, Sally--get you gone--nobody wants anything--shut the door.” She stood puzzled for a moment, then left, closing the door behind her. Moon leaned forward, both hands on the arms of his chair, and knit his brows at Cope. “That’s the last,” he said. “Come the next, and I’ll serve you as they serve magpies.” Cope wagged his heavy head slowly. “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Moon,” he remarked. “I’ve now finished speech wi’ you,” said the merchant with a dark look. And for reply to that, Cope spat into the empty hearth. Cicely became aware of awkward silences in Sally’s presence and of mournful looks that passed behind her back, and these things filled her with a nameless trouble and apprehension. When Arthur returned to Horwick for his two days (for his spells over the moor were now doubled), her manner became wheedling and cajoling; and one night, putting her arms about him, she sought again to draw from him that which during the day he had refused to tell her. “Where’s John Raikes gone?” she whispered in his ear. “Isn’t he at home?” “You know he isn’t. Where’s he gone, dear?” “Hush, lassie; go to sleep.” “Where’s he gone, dear?” “Gathering turtle-feathers; you’ll wake Sally.” But her arms were about his neck. “Do you think I can’t keep counsel?” she pleaded. “Tell me, Arthur, or I shall guess worse than there is; tell me, dear....”