She twined young roses in her hair,
’Twas beautiful to see.
There is no joy on earth like love,
Ah! Would that I were thee.”
She ceased with a shudder, muttering:—
“There, again—there, again. There’s a large murder doing at the smithy, an Andrew Britton’s hands are red with human gore.”
The opiate was by this time brought by the woman, and with great difficulty Francis made Maud attend to him.
“Here, Maud,” he said, “drink of this—’twill do you good.”
“No, no, no—there’s poison there.”
“Indeed there is not.”