“And who is this Matthew Glendore, whom you are going to see?”

“The worst of men—­the basest; and he’s on his death-bed! and I’m to forgive him!  I!

“Where is she? where is she, Glendore? for I know you through your disguise.”

We stared at the farmer while he raved, lit his cigar, and then, in the torrent of his passion, let it out again.  As we dipped to the hollow in which Wimille lay, passing carts laden with iron ore, Sharp became more excited.

“We cannot be far off now.  He’s lying at one of the iron-masters’ houses, half a mile beyond this Wimille.  Let’s stop:  I must have some brandy-and-water.”

Hanger joyfully fell in with this proposition, vowing that he was frozen, and really could not stand the cold without, unless he had something warm within, any longer.  We alighted at the village cabaret, and drew near the sweet-smelling wood fire, from which the buxom landlady drove two old men for our convenience.  I protested they should not be disturbed; but they went off shivering, as they begged us to do them the honour of taking up their post in the chimney-corner.

We threw our coats off, and the grog was brought.  The woman produced a little carafon of brandy.

“Tell her to bring the bottle,” Sharp shouted, impatiently.  “Does she take us to be school girls?  Let the water be boiling.  Ask her—­Does she know anything of this Matthew Glendore?”

The farmer mixed himself a stiff glass of brandy-and-water, while he watched Hanger questioning the landlady with many bows and smiles.

“Plenty of palavering,” Sharp muttered; then shouted—­“Does she know the scoundrel?”

“One minute, my friend,” Hanger mildly observed, meaning to convey to Sharp that he was asking a favour of gentlemen, not roaring his order to slaves.  “Permit me to get the good woman’s answers.  Yes; she knows Monsieur Glendore.”

“Mounseer Glendore!  She knows no good of him.”

“On the contrary,” mildly pursued Hanger, sipping his grog, and nicely balancing it with sugar to his taste—­“on the contrary, my good sir, she says he is a brave fellow—­what she calls a brave garcon.”

“Doesn’t know him then, Mounseer Glendore!  I wonder how many disguises he has worn in his life—­how many women he has trapped and ruined!  Ask her how long he has been here?”

The landlady answered—­“Two years about the middle of next month.”

“And he has never left this since?” Sharp went on, mixing himself by this time a second glass of brandy-and-water.

The landlady had never been a day without seeing him.  He came to play his game of dominoes in the evening frequently.  The dominoes exasperated the farmer.  He would as soon see a man with crochet needles.

“D—­n him!” Sharp shouted; “just like him.”

I now ventured to interfere.  Reuben Sharp was becoming violent with passion inflamed by brandy.  The landlady was certain poor Monsieur Glendore would never rise from his bed again.  I said to Sharp—­“Whatever the wrong may be this man has done you, Mr. Sharp, pray remember he is dying.  He is passing beyond your judgment.”