Claude had nearly reached the door when the words which were being uttered within the cottage seemed to act like a spell, arresting her steps and making her half turn shuddering away, as they seemed to lash her, so keenly and cuttingly they fell.
“Curse you! curse you! It’s all your doing. You’ve murdered me. Sarah, my girl, he has done for me at last.”
Gartram’s voice was heard in low, deep, muttering tones, as if in reproof; but the injured man’s voice overbore it directly, sounding shrill and harsh from agony as he cried,—
“Let every one outside hear it. Hark ye, lads, I wanted to use the dinnymite, but he made me use the cursed old powder again, and he has murdered me.”
“My good man,” said a fresh voice, which sounded clear in the silence, “you must be calm. It was a terrible accident.”
“Nay, doctor, it’s his doing; it’s his meanness. I wanted him to use the dinnymite, and he would keep to powder. He has murdered me.”
There was a low groan, and then a terrible cry; and as Glyddyr mentally pictured the scene within, of the doctor dressing the injuries, he turned to the trembling girl beside him.
“Miss Gartram,” he whispered, “this is no place for you. There is plenty of help. Let me see you home.”
She shook her head as she looked at him wildly, and, making a deprecating gesture, Glyddyr turned to one of the men.
“Is he very bad?” he whispered.