'He is mad, Maulevrier. Don't you see that he is mad?' she exclaimed,
looking from Hartfield to her grandson, and then with a look of loathing
and horror at her accuser.
'I tell you, young man, I am Maulevrier,' said the accuser; 'there is no
one else who has a right to be called by that name, while I live. They
have shut me up--she and her accomplice--denied my name--hidden me from
the world. He is dead, and she lies there--stricken for her sins.'
'My grandfather died at the inn at Great Langdale, faltered Maulevrier.
'Your grandfather was brought to this house--ill--out of his wits. All
cloud and darkness here,' said the old man, touching his forehead. 'How
long has it been? Who can tell? A weary time--long, dark nights, full of
ghosts. Yes, I have seen him--the Rajah, that copper-faced scoundrel,
seen him as she told me he looked when she gave the signal to her slaves
to strangle him, there in the hall, where the grave was dug ready for
the traitor's carcass. She too--yes, she has haunted me, calling upon me
to give up her treasure, to restore her son.
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