The voice, the face—there was no mistaking either. They belonged to Sally Rocliffe.
The power to cry out failed in Mehetabel. She hastily thrust her child behind her, into the depths of the cave, and interposed herself between it and the glittering eyes of the woman.
"Come on, Jamaica, we'll see how she has made herself comfortable," said Mrs. Rocliffe, and she entered, followed by Giles Cheel. Both had to stoop at the opening, but when they were a few feet within, could stand upright.
"Well, now, I call this coorious," said Sarah; "don't you, Jamaica? Here's all the Punch-Bowl turned out. Some runnin' one way, some another, all about Matabel. Some sez she's off her head; some thinks she has drownded herself and the child. And there's Jonas stormin', and in a purty takein'. There is my Thomas—gone with him—and Jamaica and I come this way over the Common. But I had a fancy you might be at the bottom o' one of them Hammer Ponds. I was told you'd been to the silk mill."
"What be you run away for? What be you a hidin' for—just like a wild beast?" asked Giles Cheel.
Mehetabel could not answer. How could she declare her reason? That the life of the child was menaced by its own father.
"Now come back with us," said Jamaica, in a persuasive tone.
"I will not. I never will return," exclaimed Mehetabel with energy. She was kneeling, with her hands extended to screen her child from the eye of Sally Rocliffe.
"I told you so, did I not?" asked the woman.
"She sed as much to me yesterday mornin when I saw her run away."