"Could you be content with nothing less than murder?" asked a voice, sternly.
Mr. Linchmore shuddered as he recognised "Goody Grey."
"For God's sake, Mrs. Grey, go and seek help for the wounded man yonder."
"Why should I?" she exclaimed, fiercely. "I will never stir a finger for you or yours. I have sworn it."
"It is your son, your long-lost son! Tabitha bid me tell you so."
Goody Grey,—or rather Mrs. Archer's,—whole frame trembled violently; she quivered and shook, and leant heavily on her staff, as though she would have fallen.
"Fly!" he continued. "For God's sake, fly! Rouse yourself, Mrs. Archer, and aid your son."
"My son!" she repeated, softly and tenderly, but as if doubting his words.
Again Mr. Linchmore implored her, again she heard those words "It is your son!" which seemed to burn her brain. But the power of replying, of moving, seemed taken from her.
A minute passed, and then the weakness passed away. Her eyes flashed, her face flushed, then blanched again, while with a mighty effort she drew up her tall figure to its utmost height, and proudly, but hurriedly, went over to where Robert lay.