A cry of “shame! shame!” arose, and a young man stepping forward, exclaimed,—
“Unmanly ruffian! How dared you strike the woman? You know as well as all we that she is mad. Andrew Britton, you are a coward, and well you merit your name of ‘The Savage.’”
“Down with the savage!” cried several.
“He has killed poor Mad Maud,” said one.
“Is she not always crying out against me?” growled the ruffian. “Is there anything too bad for the old beldame to say of me, Andrew Britton?”
“Not dead! not dead!” suddenly cried she whom the villagers called Mad Maud, springing to her feet. “Mind ye all, Andrew Britton is to die before I do. Ha! Ha!—Not dead! To the Smithy—to the Smithy.”
She darted off in the direction of the blazing house, and, as if by one impulse, the villagers followed her, shouting,—
“To the Smithy—to the Smithy!”
The building, which was in flames, had at one time evidently been of a much higher character than its present appearance warranted. It consisted of a large uninhabited house, with two wings, one of which had been converted into a smithy, and was in the occupation of Andrew Britton, the smith, who stood high in favour of the then Squire Learmont, whose property the old house was.
The fire was in the other wing to that which had been converted into a smithy, and when the villagers arrived they found it so enveloped in flames, that any attempt to save it seemed perfectly in vain.