"Humph! not much. Tush! What's in my mouth? Fever?"
"No, no, Purcell. You've been asleep—that's all."
"I've been dead, I think—dead for years and years. I think I was in another world. Dear bless me! My legs are as heavy as lead. I say, Miss Margaret, what took me—a fit?" whispered the steward, in a fright.
"No. You were put to sleep with chloroform by that man who sat opposite. He stupefied you with poisoned snuff, and then used chloroform. You need not feel alarmed, though—you have recovered."
"Faith, miss, you look but poorly yourself," said Purcell, struck by her extreme pallor. "Was—was he a thief, miss, and did he rob us?"
"He was a murderer, Purcell, and intended to kill me," said Margaret, with tears in her eyes. "But God would not permit him to succeed."
She related the circumstances to the old man, who rose from terror into fury when he realized how completely he had been taken in through his favorite refreshment, snuff, and laid out like a corpse beside his helpless young mistress.
She soothed his wounded feelings, and directed him to use caution during the rest of his fateful journey.
At daybreak they came to Cirencester, and rested there for some hours, and at nine o'clock took a coach for Llandaff.
They had not traveled a dozen miles, when a horseman galloped past the great, lumbering coach, flashing a keen glance in at Margaret Walsingham, and then disappeared upon the winding road ahead.