"That candle-flame will crack the Malherb amphora, Lovey Lee, if you don't move it," said Grace.
The woman sprang up and extinguished a dip that flamed too near her treasure.
"There's the answer to my doubts. You know too much now. I'll never sleep in peace no more while you are alive. There's a dead dog in yon corner—shrivelled to bones an' leather. He'd lost hisself 'pon the Moor and followed me here. I carried it down the steps, for it stood and barked outside. But I never carried it up again. None leaves this web but me, come in who may. You ran choose how you'll go out o' life—an' that's all the mercy I'll show 'e, Grace Malherb. You can starve, or you can kill yourself, or I can do it for 'e; but die you shall—sure as I'm a woman."
The girl regarded her steadily, and measured her huge body, long arms and broad chest. She knew that in a physical struggle she must quickly have the life crushed out of her, and for the first time she feared. Then she wondered if Lovey's heart was inflexible, and whether a way to bend her will might not exist.
"Is there no humanity in you—you who have been a mother?"
"No more than a mother wolf—not for you. I was a grandmother, too, wasn't I? I brought Jack up from childhood—an' he spied upon me. He'd have robbed me next—maybe he has."
"Not of a farthing."
"You've met me in a black hour. All's lost to the Prison. Some Judas have told the secret; an' as for me, I dare not show myself to the daylight. So there's nought to be made out of you."
"You might trust me."
"Not since you've seen that."