"You take it mighty coolly," he said, "that the life of a man we call our friend is in peril. I confess I am not so hardened."
And then he closed the door with a bang, and ran downstairs.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE BITTER END.
Meanwhile the lonely woman, shrouded in her long cloak, pursued her way. She missed it again and again, and was forced to inquire if she was right, first of a countryman she met, and once at a cottage at Widcombe of a woman who was standing at the door with a lanthorn in her hand.
"Two miles further," she said. "What are you going there for, pray, if I may be so bold?"
"On an errand of life or death," Griselda said, the words escaping her lips almost unawares.
"If that's it, and a duel is to be fought, it most like is death to one of 'em. I am watching for my husband; he has never come home, and I fear something has happened. He is often in liquor, and may have stumbled into the quarry. I call mine real troubles, I do. What do the gentry want with stabbing one another to the heart about paltry quarrels? Why, the French lord was killed out on Claverton Down by Count Rice a few months ago, and all about a trumpery pack of cards—a pack of lies, more like! I've no patience with folks who quarrel with no reason. You look very wan, my dear," the woman said, as Griselda turned away. "I can give you a cup of milk."
But Griselda shook her head. To eat or drink at that moment was impossible to her.