"Thou speakest riddles, old man; or thou dost hug the very spectres of thy brain, which men call madness."
"I am not mad; save it be madness that I have not hurled thee from this thy misgotten heritage. A power of mighty and all prevading energy hath hindered me, and, it may be, rescued thee from destruction."
"Unto what unknown intercessor do I owe this forbearance?"
"Love!" said the mendicant, with an expression of withering and baneful scorn; "a silly hankering for a puling girl."
"Thee!—in love?"
"And is it so strange, so hard and incapable of belief, that in a frosty but vigorous age, the sap should be fresh though the outward trunk look withered and without verdure?"
Nicholas shuddered. A harrowing suspicion crossed him that his beloved sister had fallen a victim to the lawless passions of this hoary delinquent.
"Thou dost judge wrongfully," said the beggar; "she appertaineth not to me. 'Tis long since I have drunk of that maddening cup, a woman's love. Would that another had not taken its intoxicating draught."
"Thou but triflest with me," said Haworth; "let the maiden go, or beware my vengeance."
"Thy vengeance! Weak, impotent man! what canst thou do? Thy threats I hold lighter than the breath that makes them; thy cajolments I value less than these; and thy rewards—why, the uttermost wealth that thou couldst boast would weigh but as a feather against the riches at my disposal."