She had not proceeded many paces when she was caught in the arms of some one who cried,— “Hilloa!—hilloa! What now, little one?” “Help!—Murder on the bridge!” cried Ada. “Oh!—Haste!—Haste!—Save the woman!” It was the watchman going his rounds, and he hurried onwards, as fast as his chilled limbs would permit him, towards the spot indicated by Ada, who closely followed him. “He has killed her!” exclaimed Ada, as she saw Maud lying apparently lifeless on the stones. “Murder done!” cried the watchman. Ada cast an anxious glance around her, and she thought that at the further extremity of the bridge she caught sight of the flying figure of the man who she believed had done the deed. “There!” she said, pointing in the direction—“Pursue him!—There flies the murderer!” The watchman immediately threw down the lantern, and with a great clattering of his iron-shod shoes, rushed across the bridge. “Alas!—Alas!” cried Ada, clasping her hands. “What can all this mean? Who is this poor mad creature?—And who that fearful man? The mystery in which my birth, name, and fate is involved, grows more and more inexplicable. Was it of me she talked so strangely and so wildly? Oh! If she could but breathe to me one word, to assure me that Jacob Gray was not my father, how richly would the terrors of this fearful night be repaid!” Ada knelt by the body of Maud as she spoke, and placed her hand over her heart, to endeavour to trace some sign of vitality. “She lives—she lives!” suddenly cried Ada, as she felt the regular beating of the organ of life. “Perchance the villain has only struck her. He may not, after casting away his knife, have had the means of harming her very seriously.” A deep groan now came from the lips of the insensible woman. “Speak—oh, speak!” cried Ada. Maud opened her eyes. They glared with the wild fire of insanity on Ada. “Do you know me?” said the girl. “Know you?—Know you? Are you an angel or a devil?” “Alas!” cried Ada. “There is no hope.” Maud passed her hand across her eyes for several moments as if trying to clear the mist that beset her memory and mental faculties. Then she said,— “Where is he?” “The man you were talking with?” “Yes, Britton, the savage smith of Learmont.” “He has fled.” “Yes—yes—fled. He was pursued by the dead man asking for his child.” “What child?” said Ada, in a voice trembling with anxiety. “I saw its little arms cling round its father’s murderer. I heard him shriek—I heard him say the hell of conscience had began its awful work within his guilty breast.” “The child—the child,” cried Ada,—“what was its name? Oh, tell me, if you can, its name?”