The boy staggered with weakness, and his sister threw an arm around him.
"Ye air to come to Mammy," she urged. "Mammy loves ye, Ezy dear."
"Wait," whispered the boy. "Ben Letts air to be arrested."
"What?"
The cry was sharp--the words hurt.
"Ben Letts air to be tooked to jail. It were him what killed the gamekeeper. It weren't Orn Skinner."
"Who were a-sayin' it were Ben?" demanded Myra, her mouth hard and lined.
"I says it," replied Ezy. "I seed him when he done it, and I comed to tell ye, and to see Mammy and Satisfied."
"Then come in, and go to bed, for ye be sick."
A change gradually came over Myra: cunning grew in the faded eyes and determination straightened the thin shoulders, as she led her brother into the hut.
"Mammy," she called softly, opening the door, "here air Ezy!"
"Fetch him in," cried Satisfied.
Mrs. Longman sank weakly into a chair. The sight of her son, her only son, white and emaciated, and the appearance of the livid scar on his brow drew a painful cry from her lips.
"He air sick," continued Myra, "put him to bed."
"Where air ye been all this time, Ezy?" asked Longman, assisting him into the small back room. But Ezra was too ill to tell the story, and the mother hushed him to sleep just as she had in those childhood days when he had been good, and always at home.
Meantime, Myra, pale and thoughtful, moved about the shanty. Her mind was upon one subject--she must save Ben Letts from the dreaded rope. She did not question the verity of her brother's statement, for she realized that Ben was not only capable of killing the inspector, but also of placing the guilt upon an innocent man. It did not, however, change her squatter love. The more she thought of Ben's danger, the more she loved and wanted to save him, the more determined she grew to take him away to some place where the officers could not find him.
"Goin' to bed, Myry?" asked Longman, taking the candle and climbing the ladder to the loft.
"Yep, but I air a-goin' to rock the brat a little while. Ye and Mammy go to bed. I locks the door."
She settled herself in the wooden rocking-chair, trundling the child to and fro, and murmuring a doleful tune. Her son was now almost two years old, and beginning to toddle about upon a pair of crooked, thin legs. As often as Ben had visited the hut he had never deigned to look at the child, but Myra had a dull hope that, if she saved the fisherman, he would show some affection for the little boy.