‘’Twas a darkish night — very little moon — and he made us turn off the road, into the moor — black and ugly it looked, stretching away four or five miles, all heath and black peat, stretches of little broken hillocks, and a pool or tarn every now and again. An’ he kept looking back towards the road, and not a word out of him. Well, I did not like meeting him at all if I could help it, but I was in dread of him; and I thought he might suppose I was plotting mischief if I refused. So I made up my mind to do as he bid me for the nonce, and then have done with him.

‘By this time we were in or about a mile from the road, and we got over a low rising ground, and back nor forward, nor no way could we see anything but the moor; and I stopped all of a sudden, and says I, “We’re far enough, I’ll go no further.”

‘“Good,” says Mr. Archer; “but let’s go yonder, where the stones are — we can sit as we talk — for I’m tired.”

‘There was half-a-dozen white stones there by the side of one of these black tarns. We none of us talked much on that walk over the moor. We had enough to think of, each of us, I dare say.

‘“This will do,” says Mr. Archer, stopping beside the pool; but he did not sit, though the stones were there. “Now, Glascock, here I am, with the price of my horse in my pocket; what do you want?”

‘Well, when it came to the point so sudden, Glascock looked a bit shy, and hung his head, and rowled his shoulders, and shuffled his feet a bit, thinking what he’d say.

‘“Hang it, man; what are you afraid of? we’re friends,” says Mr. Archer, cheerfully.

‘“Surely, Sir,” says Glascock, “I did not mean aught else.”

‘And with that Mr. Archer laughed, and says he —

‘“Come — you beat about the bush — let’s hear your mind.”

‘“Well, Sir, ’tis in my letter,” says he.

‘“Ah, Glascock,” says he, “that’s a threatening letter. I did not think you’d serve me so. Well, needs must when the devil drives.” And he laughed again, and shrugs up his shoulders, and says he, putting his hand in his pocket, “there’s sixty pounds left; ’tis all I have; come, be modest — what do you say?”

‘“You got a lot of gold off Mr. Beauclerc,” says Glascock.

‘“Not a doit more than I wanted,” says he, laughing again. “And who, pray, had a better right — did not I murder him?”

‘His talk and his laughing frightened me more and more.

‘“Well, I stood to you then, Sir; didn’t I?” says Glascock.

‘“Heart of oak, Sir — true as steel; and now, how much do you want? Remember, ’tis all I have — and I out at elbows; and here’s my friend Irons, too — eh?”

‘“I want nothing, and I’ll take nothing,” says I; “not a shilling — not a half-penny.” You see there was something told me no good would come of it, and I was frightened besides.

‘“What! you won’t go in for a share, Irons?” says he.

‘“No; ’tis your money, Sir — I’ve no right to a sixpence — and I won’t have it,” says I; “and there’s an end.”

‘“Well, Glascock, what say you?— you hear Irons.”

‘“Let Irons speak for himself — he’s nothing to me. You should have considered me when all that money was took from Mr. Beauclerc — one done as much as another — and if ’twas no more than holding my tongue, still ’tis worth a deal to you.”

‘“I don’t deny — a deal — everything. Come — there’s sixty pounds here — but, mark, ’tis all I have — how much?”

‘“I’ll have thirty, and I’ll take no less,” says Glascock, surly enough.

‘“Thirty! ’tis a good deal — but all considered — perhaps not too much,” says Mr. Archer.

‘And with that he took his right hand from his breeches’ pocket, and shot him through the heart with a pistol.

‘Neither word, nor stir, nor groan, did Glascock make; but with a sort of a jerk, flat on his back he fell, with his head on the verge of the tarn.

‘I believe I said something — I don’t know — I was almost as dead as himself — for I did not think anything that bad was near at all.

‘“Come, Irons — what ails you — steady, Sir — lend me a hand, and you’ll take no harm.”

‘He had the pistol he discharged in his left hand by this time, and a loaded one in his right.

‘”’Tis his own act, Irons. I did not want it; but I’ll protect myself, and won’t hold my life on ransom, at the hands of a Jew or a Judas,” said he, smiling through his black hair, as white as a tombstone.

‘“I am neither,” says I.

‘“I know it,” says he; “and so you’re here, and he there.”

‘“Well, ’tis over now, I suppose,” says I. I was thinking of making off.

‘“Don’t go yet,” says he, like a man asking a favour; but he lifted the pistol an inch or two, with a jerk of his wrist, “you must help me to hide away this dead fool.”

‘Well, Sir, we had three or four hours cold work of it — we tied stones in his clothes, and sunk him close under the bank, and walled him over with more. ’Twas no light job, I can tell you the water was near four feet deep, though ’twas a dry season; ............