“Who calls? Who calls?” she muttered.
“A friend,” said Sir Francis.
She shuddered, as in a low plaintive voice she said,—
“No, no—poor mad Maud has no friend. Heaven will release her when Andrew Britton is dead. He is to die before I do—yes—yes. Oh, if I could see the angel once again.”
“You shall see her, if you will give me what you have in your hand.”
“No, no. There spoke the cunning enemy—set on by Andrew Britton. No, no—fire will not burn, a murdered corpse, and so I found the papers—most precious and rare. The angel’s flame is on one of them—that would I not part with for a thousand worlds.”
“Where got you them?”
“At the old house on the marches. Ha, ha—I—I saw the glare of the light—the ruddy hue of the fire, and I knew then that Andrew Britton was trying once again to burn the body—but he can’t—he can’t. Ha! Ha! Ha! He can’t. Fire will not touch it—no, no—he may heap faggot upon faggot, but it will not burn. Is not that rare sport—rare—rare—and Andrew Britton too, to be before poor mad Maud.”
The door now opened, and the woman approached with a medical man.
“I am Sir Francis Hartleton,” said the magistrate, rising, “will you oblige me by doing what you can do for this poor creature?”