“Hush!” cried Gray, advancing; and pointing the muzzle of his pistol towards the sleeping form of the child. “Such another outcry, and I will execute my threat.” The young mother stood paralysed with terror, while Gray hastily added,— “I am hunted, I tell you. Have you no place of concealment? Speak!” “Concealment? Good Heaven! How can I aid you? What have I done that you should menace my child? You cannot, dare not be so wicked.” A loud shout at this moment rang through the court, and the flashing beams of several torches blazed through the murky windows of the miserable abode of poverty. “What sounds are those?” cried the female. “My pursuers,” said Gray. “Now, hear me; I dare not leave this place. They are on my track—your infant is sleeping—place its cot as nigh to the wall as you can, and I will hide beneath it. If this room is entered by my enemies, you must on the plea of not disturbing your child, prevent a search from taking place.” “I cannot.” “You must—you shall! Betray me by look, word, or gesture, and your child shall die, if the next moment were my last. By all hell I swear it!” The mother shuddered. “Quick—quick!” cried Gray; “my life is now counted by moments!” “Hunt him—hunt him! Hurrah!” cried the voices of the pursuers. “Hunt the murderer!” “You hear!” cried Gray. “Quick—quick!” With a face of agonised terror the mother drew the cot, without awakening the fastly-slumbering child, towards the wall. “Now,” cried Gray, “remember—your child’s life is at stake: if I escape, it escapes. If I am taken, it dies.” “But I may not be able to save you,” said the mother, in imploring accents. “The child then dies,” said Gray. “Guard the entrance to the court well,” cried a loud, authoritative voice from the outside of the house. “Search every one of these hovels, from top to bottom.” “You hear?” said Gray, trembling with terror, and scarcely able to speak from the parched state of his lips. “I do,” she said. “Give me some water.” She handed him a small, earthen pitcher, from which he took a copious and refreshing draught. “Now,” he said, “sit you by the fire, and sing that song you were singing. It will seem then as if you had been undisturbed, and remember you are playing a game in which the stake is the life of your child.” “Heaven aid me!” said the mother. “Hush! To your seat!—To your seat!” “Oh! Even be you what you may, I will do my best to save you, if you will allow me to sit here.” She pointed to the side of the cot. “No, no,” said Gray; “the child shall be nearer to me than to you.” “Why—oh, why?” “Because it will then be out of your power to prevent its doom.” “I swear—” “Pshaw! I trust no oaths. Away to your seat—to your seat, or—” He pointed the pistol again to the sleeping babe, and with a shudder the young mother sat down by the fire-side.