“You thought,” cried Learmont, making two gigantic strides, and seizing the trembling domestic by the throat. “You thought! Wretch! If you dare to think about any of my visitors, I’d give your brains to a dog, and if your tongue but wags of aught you see or hear in this house, I’ll tear it out by the roots!” “The—the—Lord have—m—mercy upon us!” groaned the servant. “I—I—I’ll never think again, your worship, as long as I—I live!” “Begone! And show him who asks for me to this room.” The terrified man made haste from the apartment, and in three or four minutes Britton, the smith, staggered into the room with an air of the most insolent and independent familiarity. His face was bloated and swollen from his deep debauch of the previous night, and his eyes looked sleepy and blood-shot. His attire hung loosely on his huge form, and he was altogether the picture of ferocity, and sensuality. “Good morning to you, squire,” he said, as he threw himself into a chair. “By G—you are well lodged here. You haven’t a spare room, have you?” Learmont stood with his back to the light, so that he was not in a favourable position for the smith to notice the working of his countenance, where indignation, hatred and policy were battling for pre-eminence. “Away with this nonsense,” cried Learmont. “What brings you here?” “What brings me here? Why, my legs, to be sure. It’s too short a distance to think of riding.” “Your errand?” cried Learmont. “Money!” bellowed Britton, in a still louder voice. “Money! Again so soon?” “Ay; so soon. I have found a mine, and I don’t see why I should not work it, as that infernal Jacob Gray says.” “Oh! Jacob Gray says that, does he?” sneered Learmont. “On my faith he does. ’Tis a shrewd knave, but I hate him. I hate him, I say!” “Indeed!” says Learmont. “He says you are a beastly sot, good Britton.” “Does he?” “Ay, does he. A thick skulled, drunken idiot.” “Ha! He says that of me?” “Even so; a mere lump of brutality—savage beast!” “Now curses on him!” muttered Britton. “How much money do you want?” said Learmont, very suddenly. “Twenty pieces.” “Twenty? Pshaw, make them forty or fifty, provided you have likewise your revenge on Jacob Gray.” “Revenge on Jacob Gray? I tell you, squire, I’d go to hell to have revenge on Jacob Gray.“ “Have you traced his abode?” “No—no—curses on him. I watched him, but he doubled on me, and I lost him.” “Indeed! Then you know not where he lives, or rather, hides?” “No; but I will though. I—” “I will show you.” “You—show—me—squire—” “Yes. I will take you to his house, where he hides alone; with, at least, none but the boy.” “You—you can, squire?” “I can, and will, to give you revenge, Britton; and when you have killed him—when you see his heart’s blood flowing—then—then, Britton, come to me and ask for unbounded wealth.” Britton sprang to his feet— “I will tear his heart out,” he cried. “Kill him? I will torture him.”