Margaret would not peril her safety by a whisper.
"I don't object, even after all that has passed, to marry you, and let you be mistress of the property, if you will only say yes."
"Heaven grant me patience to keep quiet," prayed Margaret, in her soul.
"Are you there, girl, or am I talking to an empty room?" called the man, with a bitter oath. "Have you slipped, with your confounded cleverness, out by some side door?"
Not a breath answered him; his own breathing almost filled the room as he applied his ear to the hole.
A protracted silence ensued. The man at the window waited with murder in his black soul for the faintest sound within; the hound at the door sniffed with dripping fangs, and waited too, demon-like in his imitation of his master; the lonely woman crouched in the corner, defenseless, weak, affrighted, and prayed that Heaven would keep her safe.
The hours crept slowly on, but oh! how leaden were their wings. The death-watch of these three was drawing to an end.
Margaret kept her dizzy eyes still fastened upon the black line that began to be discernible at the window, and saw a crisis approaching.
"Are you dead or living in there?" said Roland Mortlake, at the auger-hole, "If you are, you're a brave girl, and I want you for my wife. Say 'yes.'"
No answer from within, save the whine of the sleuth-hound at the door.