“I see Andrew Britton’s face scowling at me, and the dark-souled Squire of Learmont too. There—there—save the child—save it, save it. Have mercy, Heaven!”
“Listen to me,“ said Sir Francis. “The angel has sent you this.”
She half raised herself on the miserable couch, and looked fixedly at the magistrate.
“Your face is kindly,” she said. “Did you speak of the angel?”
“Yes; she has sent you this.”
The poor creature took the cup containing the medicine in her hand, and drank off the contents without another word.
“That is well,” said the surgeon, “she will fall into a deep sleep, and no doubt waken much better—see now, already.”
The poor creature lay down, and after a few moaning expressions, which they could not hear distinctly, dropped into a heavy slumber.
“She can now be removed,” said the medical man, “with ease and safety.”
Sir Francis Hartleton, as we are aware, was an exceeding powerful man, and taking off his own ample cloak, he wrapped it carefully around the poor creature, and then lifting her in his arms, he carried her as if she had been a child, down the staircase, and placed her in the coach which stood at the entrance of the court.