“Frank Hartleton I know,” she replied. “He was always kind to poor Maud. When the smith hunted me into the river, he saved me. Yes I know him and the angel.”
“And who?”
“The angel who fed me, and spoke kind words even though I was mad. Those kind words made me weep; an angel spoke them.”
“Mad as she can be,” thought Gray, “I do not like her acquaintance with Hartleton, however. There may be danger.”
“The savage smith hunted you, did he?” he then said aloud.
“He would have killed me,” replied Maud, with a shudder; “but the water came up to where we were, and saved me.”
“I am a friend, a dear friend of Hartleton’s,” said Gray; “and he wishes you to say to me all you know about things that happened long ago.”
“What things?”
“Of, you recollect the Old Smithy?”
“The Old Smithy!” repeated Maud. “Yes—I do—I do. Why should I not? The murder was only done last night, and the death-cry of the victim still lingers in the air. The storm is lulling, but the wind moans like an infant sobbing itself to sleep upon its mother’s breast. The distant shrieks of him who rushed forth with the child still echo through the valley. Do I remember?—Yes—’Twas brave work—brave work for the savage smith. Hush! Hush! Tell me now, if it be true that they will bring me the child? I will tend it for I have nothing to love now; Britton killed him—him that I loved. Oh! Give me the child of the dead, and I will be a mother to it for its orphan state!”