ult of his thoughts to
some coherent shape, until from sheer exhaustion he falls into a kind of
lethargy of sleep.

Meanwhile, Moll, lying in the dark, had been thinking also, but (as
women will at such times) with clearer perception, so that her ideas
forming in logical sequence, and growing more clear and decisive (as an
argument becomes more lively and conclusive by successful reasoning)
served to stimulate her intellect and excite her activity. And the end
of it was that she rose quickly from her bed and looked into the next
room, where she saw her husband sitting, with his chin upon his breast
and his hands folded upon his knee before the dead fire. Then wrapping
his cloak about her, she steals toward the outer door; but passing him
she must needs pause at his back to staunch her tears a moment, and look
down upon him for the last time. The light shines in his brown hair, and
she bending down till her lips touch a stray curl, they part silently,
and she breathes upon him from her very soul, a mute "Fare thee well,
dear love."

But she will wait no longer, fearing her courage may give way, and the
next minute she is out in the night, softly drawing the door to that
separates these two for ever.

CHAPTER XXXII.

_How we fought a most bloody battle with Simon, the constable, and
others._

For some time we spoke never a word, Dawson and I,--he with his head
lying on his arm, I seated in a chair with my hands hanging down by my
side, quite stunned by the blow that had fallen upon us. At length,
raising his head, his eyes puffed, and his face bedaubed with tears, he
says:

"Han't you a word of comfort, Kit, for a broken-hearted man?"

I stammered a few words that had more sound than sense; but indeed I
needed consolation myself, seeing my own responsibility for bringing
this misfortune upon Moll, and being most heartily ashamed of my roguery
now 'twas discovered.

"You don't think he'll be too hard on poor Moll, tell me that, Kit?"

"Aye, he'll forgive her," says I, "sooner than us, or we ourselves."

"And you don't think he'll be for ever a-casting it in her teeth that
her father's a--a drunken vagabond, eh?"

"Nay; I believe he is too good a man for that."

"Then," says he, standing up, "I'll go and tell him the whole story, and
you shall come with me to bear me out."

"To-morrow will be time enough," says I, flinching from this office;
"'tis late now."

"No matter for that. Time enough to