"Don't touch me!" she whispered hoarsely. "Don't look at me—I can't abide it—go away—let me die—"
"Child, where is your home?"
"None!" she whispered. "None! I durs'n't go back … now. Oh, never no more … they made me drunk … when I woke … ah, don't look at me … I wish the sun 'ud go out for ever … If I could only die!… I fought them as long as I could…. Oh, kill me, God…. I want to be dead … but I want Tom first … my Tom … I want him to know 't weren't … my fault. O Tom dear, Tom as I loved … how can I tell 'ee. O God, I want to be dead!"
"Come, child," said I gently. "Come with me, you shall be safe, sheltered for to-night, and in the morning Tom shall be found for you—"
"Ah, no, no!" she panted, shrinking from my touch. "You're a man too—let me die!"
"Poor girl, poor child," said I, "there is an inn near by and a good woman to comfort you, come, you shall be safe, I swear, and find your Tom—"
Despite her feeble struggles, I got her afoot and half-led, half-carried her along that tortuous path and so at last out of that evil wood. Afar, across the meadows, I spied the chimneys of the "Soaring Lark" and, though dawn was not broken, to my joyful wonder saw its hospitable windows aglow and the beam of a moving light in the yard.
How we accomplished the distance I do not know, but we reached the inn at last and beheld a lanthorn borne by a stalwart form.
"Who's yon?" demanded a gruff voice.
"George," I panted, "if that's you—bear a hand with this poor girl—quick, she's swooning—"