Britton was silent for a moment. He was hesitating whether by violence, at once, to tear the paper from the poor wandering creature, or endeavour first to procure such other information as he expected she possessed. He decided on the latter course, as violence could be resorted to at any moment. “Maud,” he said, “when did we meet last?” “In a crowd,” she replied. “I recollect there were many men, but none so bad as Andrew Britton. They held up their hands, the one after the other, and none had blood upon them save his alone.” “What brought you there? Tell me, or this moment is your last!” “How far is it to the Old Smithy?” said Maud, as if she had not heard or understood his question. “Curses!” muttered Britton, whose passion and fear together had tended to sober him; “is she mad, or cunning?” “The Old Smithy, where the murder was done, I mean,” added Maud. “I’ll tell you,” said Britton, in a tone that he intended should be artful and temporising, “if you will answer me what I ask and give me the paper you have?” “Britton, where’s the child?” said Maud. “How came you to spare the child? Did it lift its little hands in prayer to you? And was there one spot in your heart that shuddered at the deed of blood? Did conscience for once stay your arm? Or did Heaven interpose, and strike you powerless, when you would have slaughtered the babe? Tell me that, Britton. Where have you put the child?—Where is Dame Tatton?—Speak, Andrew Britton! I have travelled many, many miles to seek you. You killed him who loved me,—nay, scowl not, your brows are darker than the night, and I see them frowning on me. Oh! There is nothing in nature so dark and terrible as thy heart, Andrew Britton. Even at midnight, when people call it dark, and say you cannot see your hand, the smile of heaven still lingers on the world, and there is the faint light of its love still beaming through the mists of night! Andrew Britton, give me the child, and I will teach it to pray for you to Heaven. Oh, give it to me! It must be cold and weary. Give it to me, Britton, and then hope to be forgiven!” “I have no child,” said Britton; “you know that years have passed, and the child who was brought by—by—a man from the burning smithy, must be now a child no longer.” “You would deceive poor Mad Maud, because she hunts you—ay, to the death, hunts you. You cannot escape me, Britton—you are d—d!” “D—d! How—what mean you?” “I am to see you die.” “Pshaw! Tell me now, Maud, didst ever see the man again who rushed forth bleeding, with the child, from the Old Smithy.” “What man was that?” “Didst ever hear the name of Gray?” “Gray! Gray! The angel asked me that.” “Ha!” “Yes—yes—Gray. Who is Gray?” “You could take me to the angel,” said Britton, in soothing accents.