Gray had not hear the reply; but he entered the room at once, and confronted Mad Maud, who was sitting in a chair, looking more like a corpse than a human being.
CHAPTER XLII.
Gray’s Cunning.—Danger Thickens.—The Hour of Retribution has not Come.
“Who are you,” cried she, “that seeks poor Maud?”
“Maud!” exclaimed Gray, ”I have heard Britton speak of you.”
“Britton, Britton, the savage smith!” cried Maud, rising, and trying to clutch Gray with her long skinny arms. “He speak of me? Have they hung him, and I not there? Tell me, have they dared to hang him without my being there to see it? Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Gray shuddered. He had heard that wild and fearful laugh before. On the night of the storm at Learmont he had heard it, and he had never forgotten it.
“You—you lived once far from hence?” he said.
“Far—very far. ’Twas a weary way to walk. Sometimes I slept in a barn; and they hooted me out in the morning, because the frown of God was upon my soul, and I was mad—yes—I was mad, so they who had sense and judgment cast me out.”
“You know Sir Frederick Hartleton?” said Gray.