The Meeting at Mill-bank.—The Knife.—Ada’s Fate Hangs on a Thread.—The Bold Plunge. “What do you mean?” exclaimed Britton, as Sir Frederick Hamilton halted on the parapet. “Speak, Maud, or by hell I’ll throw you in the river!” “What do I mean, Andrew Britton!” replied Maud; “I mean pain and death here and torture everlasting in a world to come for you. Ay, for you, Andrew Britton—you cannot kill Maud. The Almighty has written our names in the book of mortality—but yours comes first. Yes, yours comes first, Andrew Britton!” “Idiot!” muttered Britton. “Tell me at once—did you bring that Hartleton to the Chequers?” “Hartleton!—Hartleton?” repeated Maud. “Oh, he was one of the spirits I knew long ago, before I dropped from among the stars.” “Answer my question!” cried Britton, fiercely, “did you bring Hartleton to the Chequers?” “Answer my question, Britton,” said Maud, “if your sealed black heart will let you. Why does not my husband come to his bride?” “What do you mean?” “We waited for him, but he came not; then they whispered he was dead—yes, dead, and I asked Heaven who had killed him, when a voice whispered—Andrew Britton!” “Peace,” cried Britton. “You are mad.” “Yes, mad—mad,” said Maud; “but not so mad as Andrew Britton, for he has murdered—murdered the innocent. There’s blood on your hands!” Britton started and involuntarily glanced at his hands. “Ay blood—blood,” cried Maud; “you may wash away the outward stain, but then it clings to your heart; and when you are asked at the last if you are guiltless or not of shedding man’s blood, you will hold up your hand, and it will drip with gore!” “Beldame, peace!” cried Britton. “You tempt me to do a deed before the time I intended. Hear me, Maud; you have but a chance now for your life. Answer me what I shall ask of you truly and I may spare you. Refuse, or tamper with my temper in any way, and yon river receives you in its black and rolling tide. We are alone; there is no one to hear a cry, and I will take care you shall have breath but for one. No one is at hand to aid—I have you at my mercy.” “Your mercy, Andrew Britton?” said Maud. “Oh! Profane not the word. When did you show mercy? Savage—the spirit of God is above and around us. The fiat has gone forth, and Heaven has said, thus far shalt thou go and no further—but your questions?—Your questions? I will hear your questions, although I am a widow.” “What paper is that you have?” “Paper?” “Yes; you have a paper with something written on it.” “Well?” “Give it to me or you die.” “An angel gave it me. I dream of her now sometimes when my sleep is blessed and happy.” “’Tis not for you, Andrew Britton. It belongs to the angel. I must only show it, and that not to you. No—no—not to you with your blood-stained hands.”