Wilson bowed down his head and half turned towards the window. He laid his pipe upon the sill, thrust his hands into his breeches-pockets, and stood with sloped shoulders, the attitude of a man bowed down by thought. He appeared almost afraid of facing Jeffray. There was so much grimness in the dénouement that he flinched for the moment from hazarding an opinion. “A grave step, sir,” he said at last. “Grave for us both, Dick.” “How much does the girl know?” “She knows everything.” “Is she ready to be advised by you?” “We have taken a night to search our hearts.” Wilson was not one of those creatures who carry their prejudices and opinions about with them like samples of snuff and insist on presenting them to friends and acquaintances. He was not a moral person in the ecclesiastical sense. A man of the world, he knew the thousand entanglements that are cast about those who dare to depart from the paths of propriety. “Have you thought the matter over, sir?” he said at last, laying his hand with a look of affection on Jeffray’s shoulder. “I am ready to face it, Dick,” he answered. “It is a great lottery, sir—a great lottery.” Jeffray’s lips twitched, but his face never lost its determination. “I love this woman, Dick,” he said, simply; “I would risk my immortal soul for her. How can I send her back to this brute of a husband? What have I to lose in Sussex? If poor Lot dies, I cannot rest here with his blood upon my hands. The girl’s life, too, is in danger. They meant to shoot her, Dick—shoot her—by Heaven, that they shall not! How can I turn her away at such an hour?” Wilson shook his head and stared sadly through the open window. “It is a great lottery, lad,” he said—“a great lottery.” Jeffray drew close to him and held out his hand. “Then, Dick,” he said, “I can take my destiny like a brave man. Better to stand for the truth—than shirk it for a lie. May I call you still my friend?” Wilson turned with something between a snort and a sigh. “Egad, sir, I will remain your friend despite all the women in Christendom.” And the two men shook hands. Jeffray, remembering what had happened at the parsonage, and realizing that the Grimshaws of Pevensel were desperate men, determined to remain on the watch all night with pistols and a drawn sword on the table before him. Bess was alone in the great bedroom, sleeping in the very bed, with its carved pillars and red silk canopy, in which Jeffray had been born. Wilson stumped off to his room about midnight, after talking over with Jeffray the events of the day, and listening for the twelfth time to Richard’s passionate assertion that Bess had not come of a peasant stock.