Loosing his hold of him, Ralph walked quietly away.

Wilson entered the cottage with a livid face, and murmuring, as though to himself,-- "Aiblins we may be quits yet, my chiel'.

A great stour has begoon, my birkie.

Your fire-flaucht e'e wull na fley me.

Your Cromwell's gane, an' all traitors shall tryste wi' the hangman." It was clear that whatever the mystery pertaining to the Scotchman, Simeon Stagg seemed to possess some knowledge of it.