That day Ralph walked through the streets with a calmer mind. Towards
nightfall he stepped into a tavern and secured a bed. Then he went
into the parlor of the house and sat among the people gathered there,
and chatted pleasantly on the topics of the hour.

The governing spirit of the company was a little man who wore a suit
of braided black which seemed to indicate that he belonged to one of
the clerkly professions. He was addressed by the others as Lawyer
Lampitt, and was asked if he would be busy at the court house on the
following morning. "Yes," he answered, with an air of consequence,
"there's the Quaker preacher to be tried for creating a disturbance."

"Was he taken, then?" asked one.

"He's quiet enough now in the old tower," said the lawyer, stretching
himself comfortably before the fire.

"I should have thought his tormentors were fitter occupants of his
cell," said Ralph.

"Perhaps so, young man; I express no opinion."

"There was scarce a man among them whose face would not have hanged
him," continued Ralph.

"There again I offer no opinion," said the lawyer, "but I'll tell you
an old theory of mine. It is that a murderer and a hero are all but
the same man."

The company laughed. They were accustomed to these triumphs of logic,