She raised a haggard face, its youthful beauty distorted by horror, its pallid cheeks stained with mire, and I blenched before the look in these wide eyes. "Don't touch me!" she whispered hoarsely. "Don't look at me--I can't abide it--go away--let me die--" "Child, where is your home?" "None!" she whispered. "None! I durs'n't go back ... now. Oh, never no more ... they made me drunk ... when I woke ... ah, don't look at me ... I wish the sun 'ud go out for ever ... If I could only die!... I fought them as long as I could.... Oh, kill me, God.... I want to be dead ... but I want Tom first ... my Tom ... I want him to know 't weren't ... my fault. O Tom dear, Tom as I loved ... how can I tell 'ee. O God, I want to be dead!" "Come, child," said I gently. "Come with me, you shall be safe, sheltered for to-night, and in the morning Tom shall be found for you--" "Ah, no, no!" she panted, shrinking from my touch. "You're a man too--let me die!" "Poor girl, poor child," said I, "there is an inn near by and a good woman to comfort you, come, you shall be safe, I swear, and find your Tom--" Despite her feeble struggles, I got her afoot and half-led, half-carried her along that tortuous path and so at last out of that evil wood. Afar, across the meadows, I spied the chimneys of the "Soaring Lark" and, though dawn was not broken, to my joyful wonder saw its hospitable windows aglow and the beam of a moving light in the yard. How we accomplished the distance I do not know, but we reached the inn at last and beheld a lanthorn borne by a stalwart form. "Who's yon?" demanded a gruff voice. "George," I panted, "if that's you--bear a hand with this poor girl--quick, she's swooning--" "Why, Mr. Vereker!" exclaimed George's astonished voice, and next moment the fainting girl was caught up in powerful arms and borne into the inn kitchen, I staggering after. "Mary--Moll--O Mary, old woman!" A patter of quick feet upon the stair and George's Mary came running, seeming as bonny and buxom as ever, despite her scant _deshabille_, as she bent above the swooning girl. "Poor maid--out i' the storm an' clemmed wi' cold an' 'unger, poor lass! Bring her upstairs--our warm bed, Jarge--an' then brandy, lad, an' the kettle on th' fire--up wi' you!" Left alone, I filled the kettle from a bucket in a corner, and setting it upon the fire, drew up a chair and sat to dry my clothes and warm my shivering limbs, and presently, what with my weariness and the fire's comfort, began to nod. Opening unwilling eyes, I found George beside me, holding a steaming glass to my lips, and now felt myself deathly cold and shivering in every limb.