She hastened to put before him bread and milk, and eggs, and bacon, of which he freely partook, gazing at the hostess from time to time in a peculiar way, as if he had some further plan at heart.
“You don’t tell me what you’ve found,” said Mother Goodhugh. “Come, tell me, lad. You’ll be happier for having some one to share it all.”
“Found!” he cried, laughing; “I’ve learned that about Captain Culverin that he would kill me for knowing, did he find me out. Ha, ha, ha! I shall be rich now, and can help thee back more than thou hast helped me to, Mother Goodhugh. Where are the strong waters?”
“I have none,” said the woman sulkily. “It is a lie,” he cried, sharply; and, rising, he stepped to the little chimney-piece, raised an old shell, and took out a key, which he held up, laughing.
“Nay, nay, give me the key,” cried the old woman, making a dash to seize it; but with a savage thrust, more like a blow, he sent her staggering across the brick floor, to fall heavily, and lie for a few moments half stunned, while, chuckling with glee, Churr opened a corner-cupboard and took out a quaint-looking black bottle, which he carried to the table.
“Coward—thief!” cried the old woman, as she struggled up; “thou shalt not have it;” and she ran to the table, when, with a malignant look, Churr struck her heavily with the back of his hand, sending her against the wall, where she stood panting.
“Keep away, or I’ll pook thee again,” he cried, sourly.
“Drink it, if you dare,” she cried, with flashing eyes. “It is poison of my own brewing. Drink, and die then: coward, to strike me thus.”
Abel Churr’s whole aspect changed; his yellow countenance looked haggard, and his hand shook, as he stared from the old woman’s face to the bottle, and back again.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mother Goodhugh, seeing her power; “drink away, lad, drink. I’ll see thee buried beneath some tree, and come and gather toadstools from off thy grave.”