“It’s like murder,” she murmured. “And, if she be found cold and dead in the morn I shall never forgi’e mysel’. I shall never be able to sleep again. Eh! but I wish I had rin out after her mysel.’ But then the gudeman would na hae let me. Hech! but they get hard and selfish wi’ age and infirmities, these men. Eh! how he sleeps and snores, as if there was no misery in the world,” she added, glancing at the bed.
But the old curmudgeon’s rest was destined to be broken.
There came the sound of horse’s hoofs dashing along the flooded road. The toll-gate bar was cleared at a bound. Jenny heard the spring and splash, and she started to her feet, dropping her work-basket.
The next moment there came a loud rapping at the door. It aroused the old man from his sleep.
“What the de’il is that?” he exclaimed, angrily.
“There’s ane without,” whispered Jenny, in a scared tone, trembling in spite of herself.
“Worse luck! Is it a Witch’s Sabbath and are all the warlocks and witches riding to it by this road the night?” he growled.
The knocking grew louder.
“Who is it, Jenny?” he cried.
“I dinna know,” whispered the woman.