O God, I want to be dead!"
"Come, child," said I gently. "Come with me, you shall be safe,
sheltered for to-night, and in the morning Tom shall be found for
you--"
"Ah, no, no!" she panted, shrinking from my touch. "You're a man
too--let me die!"
"Poor girl, poor child," said I, "there is an inn near by and a good
woman to comfort you, come, you shall be safe, I swear, and find your
Tom--"
Despite her feeble struggles, I got her afoot and half-led,
half-carried her along that tortuous path and so at last out of that
evil wood. Afar, across the meadows, I spied the chimneys of the
"Soaring Lark" and, though dawn was not broken, to my joyful wonder
saw its hospitable windows aglow and the beam of a moving light in the
yard.
How we accomplished the distance I do not know, but we reached the inn
at last and beheld a lanthorn borne by a stalwart form.
"Who's yon?" demanded a gruff voice.
"George," I panted, "if that's you--bear a hand with this poor
girl--quick, she's swooning--"
"Why, Mr. Vereker!" exclaimed George's astonished voice, and next
moment the fainting girl was caught up in powerful arms and borne into
the inn kitchen, I staggering after.
"Mary--Moll--O Mary, old woman!"
A patter of quick feet upon the stair and George's Mary came running,
seeming as bonny and buxom as ever, despite her scant _deshabille_, as
she bent above the swooning girl.
"Poor maid--out i' the storm an' clemmed wi' cold an' 'unger, poor
lass! Bring her upstairs--our warm bed, Jarge--an' then brandy, lad,
an' the kettle on th' fire--up wi' you!"
Left alone, I filled the kettle from a bucket in a corner, and setting
it upon the fire, drew up a chair and sat to dry my clothes and warm
my shivering limbs, and presently, what with my weariness and the
fire's comfort, began to nod.
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