Drop it, dearie, drop
it. The boy is nothing to you. Leave him go. Take your own name and get
away. This is no place for you. When I'm gone there will be no one to
warn ye. You'll be killed. You'll be killed."
Then she moaned, but whether from pain of body or mind I could not
guess.
"Never you fear. I'll take care of myself," I said cheerily.
She looked at me mournfully. "I am killed for ye, dearie."
I started, shocked at this news.
"There," she continued slowly, "I didn't mean to let you know. But they
thought I had told ye."
"Then I have two reasons instead of one for holding to my task," I said
solemnly. "I have two friends to avenge."
"You'll make the third yourself," groaned Mother Borton, "unless they
put a knife into Barkhouse, first, and then you'll be the fourth
belike."
"Barkhouse--do you know where he is?"
"He's in the Den--on Davis Street, you know. I was near forgetting to
tell ye. Send your men to get him to-night, for he's hurt and like to
die. They may have to fight. No,--don't leave me now."
"I wasn't going to leave you."
Mother Borton put her hand to her throat as though she choked, and was
silent for a moment. Then she continued:
"I'll be to blame if I don't tell you--I _must_ tell you. Are you
listening?"
Her voice came thick and strange, and her eyes wandered anxiously
about, searching the heavy shadows with a look of growing fear.
The candle burned down till it guttered and flickered in its pool of
melted tallow, and the shadows it threw upon wall and ceiling seemed
instinct with an impish life of their own, as though they were dark
spirits from the pit come to mock the final hours of the life that was
ebbing away before me.
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