“A little private conversation between me and the looking-glass, my lord; nothing else.”
“It must be a very distorted argument,” said the master, smiling; “but, Turner, I heard voices at the door—what was it? You seemed disputing with some one.”
“Nothing of the sort my lord. I don’t know any one in this pestilential country worth disputing with.”
“But surely there was more than your voice; I heard another distinctly, and it seemed like that of a woman.”
“Of a fiend, my lord—an imp of darkness—an old she-wolf. Look, here are the marks of her claws on my arm; they bit through to the bone.”
“A gipsy woman?” asked Lord Clare, turning pale; “an old weird creature that looks like a child withered to the bone. Was that the person who assailed you?”
“Exactly, my lord, I couldn’t have drawn her portrait better. You may hear her prowling about the door yet; but no fear, two bolts are drawn between us!”
“And what does she want?” asked Lord Clare, in a low and agitated voice.
“Your lordship, nothing less,” replied Turner.
“Is she alone?”