“Oh, spare a poor old creature, who hasn’t long to live,” said a voice.
“I intend you no harm,” said Albert, “but for God’s sake get me a light.”
There was a great creaking of an old crazy bedstead, and then the voice said, in the tremulous accents of old age,—
“Are you the man that lives up stairs?”
“No, no,” said Albert, “but get a light quickly.”
The old woman, after stumbling over every article of furniture in her room, at length found a tinder-box, and commenced striking a light with a particularly small bit of flint, which, produced, upon an average, one spark to every half dozen blows.
Albert Seyton, in his impatience, little suspected that the very circumstance of the old woman not being able to get him a light quickly saved his life, for while she was endeavouring to procure one, Learmont and Britton were creeping down the staircase with the expectation of meeting Albert and taking his life.
As they passed the door of the room in which Seyton was, and heard the hacking of the flint and steel, Britton muttered,—
“There’s some one getting a light, squire. We may as well move on, or shall I go in and smash whoever it is?”
“No, no; come on—come on,” said Learmont. “I know what it is, and there will come a time for rendering him innoxious. Come on—come on.”