‘A blind owld dame come to the vire,
Zo near as she could get;
Zays, “Here’s a luck I warn’t asleep
To lose this blessed hett.
‘“They robs us of our turfing rights,
Our bits of chips and sticks,
Till poor folks now can’t warm their hands,
Except by varmer’s ricks.”
‘Then, etc.’
And again the boy’s delicate voice rung out the ferocious chorus, with something, Lancelot fancied, of fiendish exultation, and every worn face lighted up with a coarse laugh, that indicated no malice—but also no mercy.
Lancelot was sickened, and rose to go.
As he turned, his arm was seized suddenly and firmly. He looked round, and saw a coarse, handsome, showily-dressed girl, looking intently into his face. He shook her angrily off.
‘You needn’t be so proud, Mr. Smith; I’ve had my hand on the arm of as good as you. Ah, you needn’t start! I know you—I know you, I say, well enough. You used to be with him. Where is he?’
‘Whom do you mean?’
‘He!’ answered the girl, with a fierce, surprised look, as if there could be no one else in the world.
‘Colonel Bracebridge,’ whispered Tregarva.
‘Ay, he it is! And now walk further off, bloodhound! and let me speak to Mr. Smith. He is in Norway,’ she ran on eagerly. ‘When will he be back? When?’