“But there is one thing I dreads for her more nor all the rest—more even nor the last thing of all.”
“And what is that?” inquired Malcolm, in a sinking voice.
“Why, sir, the reading o’ the death-warrant to her; and it’s my belief as the sheriff don’t like the job himself, as he has put it off so long—and I doubt it’ll be the death of her without any more trouble. Why, lor’, sir, I’ve seen the dare-devilest ruffians, as you would think they’d go through fire and brimstone, and face Satan himself, blanch as white as a sheet at hearing of that read. Why, lor’! you see, sir, it do go into all the particulars, so cruel plain, telling all about how they are to be—”
“I know—I know!” hastily interrupted Malcolm, with sickening faintness stealing over him. “But, tell me, is this formality never in any case omitted?”
“I beg your pardon, sir—” said the perplexed wardress.
“Does not the sheriff sometimes fail to read the death-warrant to the condemned prisoner?”
“Not as ever I hear on, sir; no, I believe not. But sure you ought to be able to tell, sir.”
“I know very little of these formalities,” answered Malcolm.
They had by this time reached the lower hall, where their way divided.
Mrs. Barton courtesied, and turned off towards her own apartment; and Mr. Montrose, with breathless lungs, bursting heart, and burning brain, hurried out into the open air.