Wherever in the house Urith went, she heard judgment pronounced on him in no measured terms, the general voice condemned him as heartless and profane. Question was made what proceeding would be taken against him, and abundance of advice was offered as to the course to be pursued to obtain redress. Urith was unable to endure the talk of the women in her mother's room, and she descended to the hall, there to hear her Uncle Solomon, amongst farmers and yeomen, tell the story of Anthony's deed with much exaggeration, and to hear the frank expressions of disapproval it elicited. Then she went into the kitchen, where the poorer neighbours were congregated. Everywhere it was the same. Condemnation fell on Anthony. No one believed that he had not acted in wilful knowledge of what he was about. Urith could not fail to observe that there was a widespread latent jealousy and dislike of the Cleverdons in the neighbourhood, occasioned partly, no doubt, by the success of the old man in altering his position and entering a superior class, but chiefly due to his arrogance, hardness, and meanness. All the faults in Anthony's character were commented on, and his good qualities denied or disparaged. Urith could with difficulty restrain herself from contradicting these harsh judges, and in taking on her the defence of the culprit, but she saw clearly that her advocacy would be unavailing, and provoke comment. She therefore left the house. Her mother was so much recovered as not to need her. Whether the old lady acted wisely in receiving so much company after her fit, Urith doubted, but her mother had insisted on the visitors being admitted to her room, and under the excitement she rallied greatly. To be away from the clatter of tongues, she left the farm and went forth upon the moor. To the north of Willsworthy rises a ridge of bold and serrated rocks that rise precipitously above the River Tavy, which foams below at a depth of three hundred feet; they present the appearance of a series of ruined towers, and are actually in places united by the remains of ancient walls of rude moorstone, for what purpose piled up, it is not possible to say. A bar of red porphyritic granite crosses the ravine, and over this leaps the river into a deep pool, immediately beneath the boldest towers and pinnacles of rock that overhang. Among these crags, perched like an eagle above the dizzy abyss, sat Urith on a rock, listening to the roar of the river wafted up to her from beneath. Away to the north and east of the moor extended shoulder on shoulder, to the lonely peak of Fur Tor that rises in uttermost solitude near the sources of the Tavy, amidst all but untraversable morasses. She was glad to be there, alone, away from the lips that spit their venom on the name of Anthony.