“My mind misgives me,” cried the young man who had the preceding evening spoken so boldly to the smith—“my mind misgives me; but there is something wrong. Let us force the door, my masters.”
“Nay, Frank,” said an old man. “The widow sleeps soundly after the storm. Ye are too hasty—far too hasty, Frank Hartleton.”
“Nay to thee!” cried the impetuous youth. “’Tis but a broken panel at the utmost, and we do force the dame’s door, and that we can any of us mend again. What say you masters?”
“Aye, truly,” replied a little man with a red night-cap—“spoken truly—most sagely spoken.”
“But will the squire approve of it, think ye?” suggested one.
“By my shears I thought not of that,” murmured the little man, who was the garment fashioner of Learmont.
“Knock again,” cried several.
Frank Hartleton knocked loudly, and shouted,—
“Dame Tatton—Dame Tatton, I say; hast taken a sleeping draught?”
No voice replied. All was as still as the grave within the cottage.