is no one but God and you!'

Madame all this time viewed me with the same dismal stare, like a sorceress
reading futurity in my face.

'Well, maybe you are--how can I tell? Maybe your uncle is mad--maybe you
are mad. You have been my enemy always--why should I care?'

Again I burst into wild entreaty, and, clasping her fast, poured forth my
supplications with the bitterness of death.

'I have no confidence in you, little Maud; you are little rogue--petite
traitresse! Reflect, if you can, how you 'av always treat Madame. You 'av
attempt to ruin me--you conspire with the bad domestics at Knowl to destroy
me--and you expect me here to take a your part! You would never listen to
me--you 'ad no mercy for me--you join to hunt me away from your house like
wolf. Well, what you expect to find me now? _Bah_!'

This terrific 'Bah!' with a long nasal yell of scorn, rang in my ears like
a clap of thunder.

'I say you are mad, petite insolente, to suppose I should care for you more
than the poor hare it will care for the hound--more than the bird who has
escape will love the oiseleur. I do not care--I ought not care. It is your
turn to suffer. Lie down on your bed there, and suffer quaitely.'

CHAPTER LXIII

_SPICED CLARET_

I did not lie down; but I despaired. I walked round and round the room,
wringing my hands in utter distraction. I threw myself at the bedside on my
knees. I could not pray; I could only shiver and moan, with hands clasped,
and eyes of horror turned up to heaven. I think Madame was, in her
malignant way, perplexed. That some evil was intended me I am sure she was
persuaded; but I dare say Meg Hawkes had said rightly in telling me that
she was not fully in their secrets.

The first paroxysm of despair subsided into another state. All at once my
mind was filled with the idea of Meg Hawkes, her enterprise, and my chances
of escape. There is one point at which the road to Elverston makes a short
ascent: there is a sudden curve there, two great ash-trees, with a roadside
stile between, at the right side, covered with ivy. Driving back and
forward, I did not recollect having particularly remarked this point in
the highway; but now it was before me, in the thin light of the thinnest
segment of moon, and the figure of Meg Hawkes, her back toward me, always
ascending towards Elverston. It was constantly the same picture--the same
motion without progress--the same dreadful suspense and impatience.

I wa