The landlord now opened a door, and, popping his head in, cried in a very different tone to that in which he addressed Gray, upon the supposition of his acquaintance with Sir Frederick Hartleton,— “Hilloa! Here’s a gentleman come to see you, old ’un.” Gray had not hear the reply; but he entered the room at once, and confronted Mad Maud, who was sitting in a chair, looking more like a corpse than a human being. CHAPTER XLII. Gray’s Cunning.—Danger Thickens.—The Hour of Retribution has not Come. “Who are you,” cried she, “that seeks poor Maud?” “Maud!” exclaimed Gray, ”I have heard Britton speak of you.” “Britton, Britton, the savage smith!” cried Maud, rising, and trying to clutch Gray with her long skinny arms. “He speak of me? Have they hung him, and I not there? Tell me, have they dared to hang him without my being there to see it? Ha! Ha! Ha!” Gray shuddered. He had heard that wild and fearful laugh before. On the night of the storm at Learmont he had heard it, and he had never forgotten it. “You—you lived once far from hence?” he said. “Far—very far. ’Twas a weary way to walk. Sometimes I slept in a barn; and they hooted me out in the morning, because the frown of God was upon my soul, and I was mad—yes—I was mad, so they who had sense and judgment cast me out.” “You know Sir Frederick Hartleton?” said Gray. “Frank Hartleton I know,” she replied. “He was always kind to poor Maud. When the smith hunted me into the river, he saved me. Yes I know him and the angel.” “And who?” “The angel who fed me, and spoke kind words even though I was mad. Those kind words made me weep; an angel spoke them.” “Mad as she can be,” thought Gray, “I do not like her acquaintance with Hartleton, however. There may be danger.” “The savage smith hunted you, did he?” he then said aloud. “He would have killed me,” replied Maud, with a shudder; “but the water came up to where we were, and saved me.” “I am a friend, a dear friend of Hartleton’s,” said Gray; “and he wishes you to say to me all you know about things that happened long ago.” “What things?” “Of, you recollect the Old Smithy?” “The Old Smithy!” repeated Maud. “Yes—I do—I do. Why should I not? The murder was only done last night, and the death-cry of the victim still lingers in the air. The storm is lulling, but the wind moans like an infant sobbing itself to sleep upon its mother’s breast. The distant shrieks of him who rushed forth with the child still echo through the valley. Do I remember?—Yes—’Twas brave work—brave work for the savage smith. Hush! Hush! Tell me now, if it be true that they will bring me the child? I will tend it for I have nothing to love now; Britton killed him—him that I loved. Oh! Give me the child of the dead, and I will be a mother to it for its orphan state!” “Indeed! Who has promised you the child?” “He—the good—the brave.” “Who?” “Frank Hartleton. ‘Be patient,’ he said, ‘and you shall see that child again.’” Gray trembled as he said,—