Rebecca again interrupted him.  “What folly is this,” she said, raising her voice almost to a shriek, “how know you but that, whilst you are questioning the damsel, your chests and coffers are in the hands of robbers; your money, I tell you, is in danger:  your gold, your oft-told gold.  You were not wont to be so careless of your gold; up and look after it.  You will be reduced to beg your bread from those you hate; arise, be strong.  Where are your keys?  Give them to the damsel; she is young and active; she will swiftly remove the treasure out of the way.  Can you not trust her?  See you not the fair guise in which she comes?  Can you suspect a creature who looks like your wife, like Rachel?  Is not her tale well framed; and are you, or are you not deceived by her fair seemings?  She is the daughter of a beggar, and she knows herself to be such; and there is no doubt but that she has her ends to answer by giving this alarm.”

The old man had arisen; he looked hither and thither; he felt for his keys, which were hanging at his girdle; and then, falling back into his chair, he uttered one deep groan and became insensible, his whole complexion turning to a livid paleness.

“He is dying!” exclaimed Tamar, holding him up in his chair, from which he would have otherwise fallen.  “He is dying, the poor old man is dying; bring water, anything.”

“He has often been in this way since he came here,” replied Rebecca.  “We have thought that he has had a stroke; he is not the man he was a few months since; and had I known how it would be, it is strange but I would have found means to hinder his coming.”

“If he were ever so before,” said Tamar “why did you work him up, and talk to him, as you did, about his daughter; but, fetch some water,” she added.

“I shall not leave him with you,” answered Rebecca.

“Nor shall I abandon him to your tender mercies,” replied Tamar, “whilst he is in this condition.  I am not his daughter, it is true,—­but he is a feeble old man, and I will befriend him if I can.”

The old gentleman at this moment fell forward with such weight, that Tamar ran from behind him, and dropping down on her knees, received his head on her shoulder, then, putting one arm round him, she was glad to hear a long, deep sigh, the prelude of his returning to partial consciousness; and as he opened his eyes, he said,—­“Ah, Rachel, is it you?  You have been gone a long time.”

Tamar was at that moment alone with the old man.  Rebecca had heard voices at a distance, and she had run to pull up the bridge.

“I am not your Rachel, venerable Sir,” she said; “but the adopted daughter of the Laird of Dymock,” and she gently laid his head back.

“Then why do you come to me like her?” said the old man.  “That is wrong, it is very cruel; it is tormenting me before my time.  I have not hurt you, and I will give you more gold if you will not do this again.”