“I have sought you,” continued the poor woman, “oh, how I have sought you and Learmont too. You see I am mad, and so I know more than ordinary people. The day is coming—the day of vengeance, and I have come to London to see it. I have asked often—often for you, Andrew Britton, and now you are found.” “Devil!” cried Britton, “why do you haunt me?” “Haunt you! Yes, that is the word, I do haunt you! I will haunt you to the last.” “Indeed! Perhaps you may meet with some accident.” “No, no; I will tell you who I asked for you. You will not be surprised.” “Who?—Who dared you ask for me?” “There was a man hung last Monday—” “Well, w—what is that to me? If there were fifty men hung? What is it to me, I say?” “Nothing—oh, nothing, Andrew Britton; but I asked if he knew your hiding-place.” “Why ask him?” “Because the good and just cannot know you; you belong not to them; I asked the man who stood beneath the gibbet if he had been tempted to crime by Andrew Britton, the savage smith of Learmont; I asked the hangman if he knew you, and when he said he did not, I described you to him, that he might recognise you, when his cold clammy hands, are about your neck!” “Prating idiot!” said Britton, “if you tempt me to the deed, I’ll cast you over the bridge!” “You dare not, Andrew Britton! You dare not,” cried Maud. “Savage as you are, you dare not do that! Strange, too, as you boast yourself, you could not!” “Indeed!“ answered Britton. “Now, by Heaven—” “Hold—hold! Whatever you do, swear not by Heaven;—that Heaven you will never see! What have you to do with Heaven, that you should record your blustering oaths in its pure annals? Swear not by Heaven, Andrew Britton, or you may provoke a vengeance that may be terrible even to you.” “Tell me,” said Britton, in an evidently assumed tone of mildness, “what brought you to London?” “A holier errand, Britton, than that which has brought you, God knows I came to save, but you came to destroy.” “Save who?” “The child! The child!” “You speak in riddles, Maud. What child?” “I am mad!” replied the woman. “I know I am mad, but I have not forgotten—no, no. I cannot tell how long ago it is, but I saw the child of the dead brought forth by the bleeding man!” “You rave,” cried Britton. “No—no; I had no clue to that young child. To wander in search of it was hopeless till—till I found that you, Andrew Britton, were on the move. So long as the sound of your hammer rose on the night air at Learmont, I stayed there,—I hovered round your dwelling.” “You played the spy upon me?” cried Britton. “I did—I did; and wherefore should I not? I have followed you to this city. You came to seek the child; so have I. But you came quickly, with gold to urge you on your way; I have been many weeks begging from door to door. I asked two things wherever I went; one was a morsel of broken bread, and the other was to place my face towards London; now I am here,—here, Britton, I came to save the child.”