It was now growing late; the sun was setting in the plain beyond Kettley; the tree-tops overhead glowed golden; but the shadows had begun to grow darker and the chill of the night to fall.
"If there were anything to eat!" cried Dick, suddenly, pausing as he spoke.
Matcham sat down and began to weep.
"Ye can weep for your own supper, but when it was to save men's lives, your heart was hard enough," said Dick, contemptuously.

"Y' 'ave seven deaths upon your conscience, Master John; I'll ne'er forgive you that." "Conscience!" cried Matcham, looking fiercely up.

"Mine! And ye have the man's red blood upon your dagger! And wherefore did ye slay him, the poor soul?
He drew his arrow, but he let not fly; he held you in his hand, and spared you! 'Tis as brave to kill a kitten, as a man that not defends himself." Dick was struck dumb.
"I slew him fair.

I ran me in upon his bow," he cried.
"It was a coward blow," returned Matcham.

"Y' are but a lout and bully, Master Dick; ye but abuse advantages; let there come a stronger, we will see you truckle at his boot! Ye care not for vengeance, neither--for your father's death that goes unpaid, and his poor ghost that clamoureth for justice.