It had come, and I saw no way of escape. The sergeant was between us
and I could not strike him. And I found no words. A score of times I
had thought with shrinking how I should reveal my secret to
Mademoiselle--what I should say, and how she would take it; but in my
mind it had been always a voluntary act, this disclosure, it had been
always I who unmasked myself and she who listened--alone; and in this
voluntariness and this privacy there had been something which took from
the shame of anticipation. But here--here was no voluntary act on
my part, no privacy, nothing but shame. And I stood mute, convicted,
speechless, under her eyes--like the thing I was.
Yet if anything could have braced me it was Mademoiselle’s voice when
she answered him.
‘Go on, Monsieur,’ she said calmly, ‘you will have done the sooner.’
‘You do not believe me?’ he replied. ‘Then, I say, look at him! Look at
him! If ever shame--’
‘Monsieur,’ she said abruptly--she did not look at me, ‘I am ashamed of
myself.’
‘But you don’t hear me,’ the Lieutenant rejoined hotly. ‘His very name
is not his own! He is not Barthe at all. He is Berault, the gambler, the
duellist, the bully; whom if you--’
Again she interrupted him.
‘I know it,’ she said coldly. ‘I know it all; and if you have nothing
more to tell me, go, Monsieur. Go!’ she continued in a tone of infinite
scorn. ‘Be satisfied, that you have earned my contempt as well as my
abhorrence.’
He looked for a moment taken aback. Then,--
‘Ay, but I have more,’ he cried, his voice stubbornly triumphant.
‘I forgot that you would think little of that. I forgot that a swordsman
has always the ladies’ hearts---but I have more. Do you know, too, that
he is in the Cardinal’s pay? Do you know that he is here on the same
errand which brings us here--to arrest M. de Cocheforet? Do you know
that while we go about the business openly and in soldier fashion, it
is his part to worm himself into your confidence, to sneak into Madame’s
intimacy, to listen at your door, to follow your footsteps, to hang on
your lips, to track you--track you until you betray yourselves and the
man? Do you know this, and that all his sympathy is a lie,
Mademoiselle? His help, so much bait to catch the secret? His aim
blood-money--blood-money? Why, MORBLEU!’ the Lieutenant continued,
pointing his finger at me, and so carried away by passion, so lifted
out of himself by wrath and indignation, that I shrank before him--‘you
talk, lady, of contempt and abhorrence in the same breath with me, but
what have you for him--what have you for him--the spy, the informer, the
hired traitor? And if you doubt me, if you want evidence, look at him.
Only look at him, I say.’
And he might say it; for I stood silent still, cowering and despairing,
white with rage and hate. But Mademoiselle did not look. She gazed
straight at the Lieutenant.
‘Have you done?’ she said.
‘Done?’ he stammered; her words, her air, bringing him to earth again.
‘Done? Yes, if you believe me.’
‘I do not,’ she answered proudly. ‘If that be all, be satisfied,
Monsieur. I do not believe you.’
‘Then tell me this,’ he retorted, after a moment of stunned surprise.
‘Answer me this! Why, if he was not on our side, do you think that we
let him remain here? Why did we suffer him to stay in a suspected house,
bullying us, annoying us, thwarting us, taking your part from hour to
hour?’
‘He has a sword, Monsieur,’ she answered with fine contempt.
‘MILLE DIABLES!’ he cried, snapping his fingers in a rage. ‘That for
his sword! It was because he held the Cardinal’s commission, I tell you,
because he had equal authority with us. Because we had no choice.’
‘And that being so, Monsieur, why are you now betraying him?’ she asked.
He swore at that, feeling the stroke go home.
‘You must be mad!’ he said, glaring at her. ‘Cannot you see that the man
is what I tell you? Look at him! Look at him, I say! Listen to him! Has
he a word to say for himself?’
Still she did not look.
‘It is late,’ she replied coldly. ‘And I am not very well. If you have
done, quite done--perhaps, you will leave me, Monsieur.’
‘MON DIEU! he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders, and grinding his teeth
in impotent rage. You are mad! I have told you the truth, and you will
not believe it. Well--on your head be it then, Mademoiselle. I have no
more to say! You will see.’
And with that, without more, fairly conquered by her staunchness, he
saluted her, gave the word to the sergeant, turned and went down the
path.
The sergeant went after him, the lanthorn swaying in his hand. And we
two were left alone. The frogs were croaking in the pool, a bat flew
round in circles; the house, the garden, all lay quiet under the
darkness, as on the night which I first came to it.
And would to Heaven I had never come that was the cry in my heart. Would
to Heaven I had never seen this woman, whose nobleness and faith were a
continual shame to me; a reproach branding me every hour I stood in her
presence with all vile and hateful names. The man just gone, coarse,
low-bred, brutal soldier as he was, manflogger and drilling-block, had
yet found heart to feel my baseness, and words in which to denounce it.
What, then, would she say, when the truth came home to her? What shape
should I take in her eyes then? How should I be remembered through all
the years then?
Then? But now? What was she thinking now, at this moment as she stood
silent and absorbed near the stone seat, a shadowy figure with face
turned from me? Was she recalling the man’s words, fitting them to the
facts and the past, adding this and that circumstance? Was she, though
she had rebuffed him in the body, collating, now he was gone, all that
he had said, and out of these scraps piecing together the damning truth?
Was she, for all that she had said, beginning to see me as I was? The
thought tortured me. I could brook uncertainty no longer. I went nearer
to her and touched her sleeve.
‘Mademoiselle,’ I said in a voice which sounded hoarse and unnatural
even in my own ears, ‘do you believe this of me?’
She started violently, and turned.
‘Pardon, Monsieur!’ she murmured, passing her hand over her brow; ‘I had
forgotten that you were here. Do I believe what?’
‘What that man said of me,’ I muttered.
‘That!’ she exclaimed. And then she stood a moment gazing at me in a
strange fashion. ‘Do I believe that, Monsieur? But come, come!’ she
continued impetuously. ‘Come, and I will show you if I believe it. But
not here.’
She turned as she spoke, and led the way on the instant into the house
through the parlour door, which stood half open. The room inside was
pitch dark, but she took me fearlessly by the hand and led me quickly
through it, and along the passage, until we came to the cheerful
lighted hall, where a great fire burned on the hearth. All traces of the
soldiers’ occupation had been swept away. But the room was empty.
She led me to the fire, and there in the full light, no longer a shadowy
creature, but red-lipped, brilliant, throbbing with life and beauty,
she stood opposite me--her eyes shining, her colour high, her breast
heaving.
‘Do I believe it?’ she said in a thrilling voice. ‘I will tell you. M.
de Cocheforet’s hiding-place is in the hut behind the fern-stack, two
furlongs beyond the village on the road to Auch. You know now what no
one else knows, he and I and Madame excepted. You hold in your hands his
life and my honour; and you know also, M. de Berault, whether I believe
that tale.’
‘My God!’ I cried. And I stood looking at her until something of the
horror in my eyes crept into hers, and she shuddered and stepped back
from me.
‘What is it? What is it?’ she whispered, clasping her hands. And with
all the colour gone suddenly from her cheeks she peered trembling into
the corners and towards the door. ‘There is no one here.’
I forced myself to speak, though I was trembling all over like a man in
an ague. ‘No, Mademoiselle, there is no one here,’ I muttered. ‘There
is no one here.’ And then I let my head fall on my breast, and I stood
before her, the statue of despair. Had she felt a grain of suspicion, a
grain of doubt, my bearing must have opened her eyes; but her mind was
cast in so noble a mould that, having once thought ill of me and been
converted, she could feel no doubt again. She must trust all in all.
A little recovered from her fright, she stood looking at me in great
wonder; and at last she had a thought--
‘You are not well?’ she said suddenly. ‘It is your old wound, Monsieur.
Now I have it?’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle,’ I muttered faintly, ‘it is.’
‘I will call Clon!’ she cried impetuously. And then, with a sob: ‘Ah!
poor Clon! He is gone. But there is still Louis. I will call him and he
will get you something.’
She was gone from the room before I could stop her, and I stood leaning
against the table possessor at last of the secret which I had come so
far to win; able in a moment to open the door and go out into the night,
and make use of it--and yet the most unhappy of men. The sweat stood
on my brow; my eyes wandered round the room; I turned towards the door,
with some mad thought of flight--of flight from her, from the house,
from everything; and I had actually taken a step towards this, when on
the door, the outer door, there came a sudden hurried knocking which
jarred every nerve in my body. I started, and stopped. I stood a moment
in the middle of the floor gazing at the door, as at a ghost. Then,
glad of action, glad of anything that might relieve the tension of my
feelings, I strode to it and pulled it sharply open.
On the threshold, his flushed face lit up by the light behind me,
stood one of the knaves whom I had brought with me to Auch. He had been
running, and panted heavily; but he had kept his wits, and the instant
I, appeared he grasped my sleeve.
‘Ah! Monsieur, the very man!’ he cried. ‘Quick! come this instant,
lose not a moment, and you may yet be first. They have the secret! The
soldiers have found Monsieur!’
‘Found him?’ I echoed. ‘M. de Cocheforet?’
‘No; but they know the place where he lies. It was found by accident.
The Lieutenant was gathering his men when I came away. If we are quick,
we may yet be first.’
‘But the place?’ I said.
‘I could not hear,’ he answered bluntly. ‘We must hang on their skirts,
and at the last moment strike in. It is the only way, Monsieur.’
The pair of pistols I had taken from the shock-headed man lay on a chest
by the door. Without waiting for more I snatched them up and my hat, and
joined him, and in a moment we were running down the garden. I looked
back once before we passed the gate, and I saw the light streaming
out through the door which. I had left open; and I fancied that for an
instant a figure darkened the gap. But the fancy only strengthened the
one single purpose, the iron resolve, which had taken possession of me
and all my thoughts. I must be first; I must anticipate the Lieutenant;
I must make the arrest myself. I must be first. And I ran on only the
faster.
We were across the meadow and in the wood in a moment. There, instead of
keeping along the common path, I boldly singled out--my senses seemed to
be preternaturally keen--the smaller trail by which Clon had brought
us. Along this I ran unfalteringly, avoiding logs and pitfalls as by
instinct, and following all its turns and twists, until we came to the
back of the inn, and could hear the murmur of subdued voices in the
village street, the sharp low word of command, and the clink of weapons;
and could see over and between the houses the dull glare of lanthorns
and torches.
I grasped my man’s arm, and crouched down listening. When I had heard
enough, ‘Where is your mate?’ I said in his ear.
‘With them,’ he muttered.
‘Then come,’ I whispered rising. ‘I have seen what I want. Let us go.’
But he caught me by the arm and detained me.
‘You don’t know the way,’ he said. ‘Steady, steady, Monsieur. You go
too fast. They are just moving. Let us join them, and strike in when the
time comes. We must let them guide us.’
‘Fool!’ I said, shaking off his hand. ‘I tell you, I know where he is! I
know where they are going. Come, and we will pluck the fruit while they
are on the road to it.’
His only answer was an exclamation of surprise. At that moment the
lights began to move. The Lieutenant was starting. The moon was not yet
up, the sky was grey and cloudy; to advance where we were was to step
into a wall of blackness. But we had lost too much already, and I did
not hesitate. Bidding my companion follow me and use his legs, I sprang
through a low fence which rose before us; then stumbling blindly over
some broken ground in the rear of the houses, I came with a fall or
two to a little watercourse with steep sides. Through this I plunged
recklessly and up the farther side, and, breathless and panting,
gained the road, beyond the village, and fifty yards in advance of the
Lieutenant’s troop.
They had only two lanthorns burning, and we were beyond the circle of
light cast by these; while the steady tramp of so many footsteps covered
the noise we made. We were in no danger of being noticed, and in a
twinkling we turned our backs, and as fast as we could we ran down the
road. Fortunately, they were thinking more of secrecy than speed, and in
a minute we had doubled the distance between them and us. In two minutes
their lights were mere sparks shining in the gloom behind us. We lost
even the tramp of their feet. Then I began to look out and go more
slowly, peering into the shadows on either side for the fernstack.
On one hand the hill rose steeply, on the other it fell away to the
stream. On neither side was close wood, or my difficulties had been
immensely increased; but scattered oak trees stood here and there among
the bracken. This helped me, and presently, on the upper side, I came
upon the dense substance of the stack looming black against the lighter
hill.
My heart beat fast, but it was no time for thought. Bidding the man in
a whisper to follow me and be ready to back me up, I climbed the bank
softly, and, with a pistol in my hand, felt my way to the rear of
the stack, thinking to find a hut there, set against the fern, and M.
Cocheforet in it. But I found no hut. There was none; and, moreover, it
was so dark now we were off the road, that it came upon me suddenly,
as I stood between the hill and the stack, that I had undertaken a very
difficult thing. The hut behind the fern stack. But how far behind? how
far from it? The dark slope stretched above us, infinite, immeasurable
shrouded in night. To begin to climb it in search of a tiny hut,
possibly well hidden and hard to find in daylight, seemed an endeavour
as hopeless as to meet with the needle in the hay! And now while I
stood, chilled and doubting, almost despairing, the steps of the troop
in the road began to grow audible, began to come nearer.
‘Well, Monsieur le Capitaine?’ the man beside me muttered--in wonder why
I stood. ‘Which way? or they will be before us yet.’
I tried to think, to reason it out; to consider where the hut should be;
while the wind sighed through the oaks, and here and there I could hear
an acorn fall. But the thing pressed too close on me; my thoughts would
not be hurried, and at last I said at a venture,--
‘Up the hill. Straight up from the stack.’
He did not demur, and we plunged at the ascent, knee-deep in bracken and
furze, sweating at every pore with our exertions, and hearing the troop
come every moment nearer on the road below. Doubtless they knew exactly
whither to go! Forced to stop and take breath when we had scrambled up
fifty yards or so, I saw their lanthorns shining like moving glow-worms;
I could even hear the clink of steel. For all I could tell, the hut
might be down there, and we be moving from it. But it was too late to go
back now--they were close to the fern-stack; and in despair I turned
to the hill again. A dozen steps and I stumbled. I rose and plunged on
again; again stumbled. Then I found that I was treading level earth.
And--was it water I saw before me, below me? or some mirage of the sky?
Neither; and I gripped my fellow’s arm, as he came abreast of me, and
stopped him sharply. Below us in the middle of a steep hollow, a pit in
the hill-side, a light shone out through some aperture and quivered on
the mist, like the pale lamp of a moorland hobgoblin. It made itself
visible, displaying nothing else; a wisp of light in the bottom of a
black bowl. Yet my spirits rose with a great bound at sight of it; for I
knew that I had stumbled on the place I sought.
In the common run of things I should have weighed my next step
carefully, and gone about it slowly. But here was no place for thought,
nor room for delay; and I slid down the side of the hollow on the
instant, and the moment my feet touched the bottom sprang to the door of
the little hut, whence the light issued. A stone turned under my feet
in my rush, and I fell on my knees on the threshold; but the fall only
brought my face to a level with the face of the man who lay inside on
a bed of fern. He had been reading. Startled by the sound I made, he
dropped his book, and in a flash stretched out his hand for a weapon.
But the muzzle of my pistol covered him, he was not in a posture from
which he could spring, and at a sharp word from me he dropped his hand;
the tigerish glare which flickered for an instant in his eyes gave place
to a languid smile, and he shrugged his shoulders.
‘EH BIEN!,’ he said with marvellous composure. ‘Taken at last! Well, I
was tired of it.’
‘You are my prisoner, M. de Cocheforet,’ I answered. ‘Move a hand and I
kill you. But you have still a choice.’
‘Truly?’ he said, raising his eyebrows.
‘Yes. My orders are to take you to Paris alive or dead. Give me your
parole that you will make no attempt to escape, and you shall go thither
at your ease and as a gentleman. Refuse, and I shall disarm and bind
you, and you go as a prisoner.’
‘What force have you?’ he asked curtly. He still lay on his elbow, his
cloak covering him, the little Marot in which he had been reading close
to his hand. But his quick black eyes, which looked the keener for the
pallor and thinness of his face, roved ceaselessly over me, probed the
darkness behind me, took note of everything.
‘Enough to compel you, Monsieur,’ I replied sternly; ‘but that is not
all. There are thirty dragoons coming up the hill to secure you, and
they will make you no such offer. Surrender to me before they come, and
give me your parole, and I will do all I can for your comfort. Delay,
and you must fall into their hands. There can be no escape.’
‘You will take my word?’ he said slowly.
‘Give it, and you may keep your pistols, M. de Cocheforet.’
‘Tell me at least that you are not alone.’
‘I am not alone.’
‘Then I give it,’ he said with a sigh. ‘And for Heaven’s sake get me
something to eat and a bed. I am tired of this pig-sty. MON DIEU! it is
a fortnight since I slept between sheets.’
‘You shall sleep to-night in your own house, if you please,’ I answered
hurriedly. ‘But here they come. Be good enough to stay where you are for
a moment, and I will meet them.’
I stepped out into the darkness, just as the Lieutenant, after posting
his men round the hollow, slid down with a couple of sergeants to make
the arrest. The place round the open door was pitch-dark. He had not
espied my man, who had lodged himself in the deepest shadow of the hut,
and when he saw me come out across the light he took me for
Cocheforet. In a twinkling he thrust a pistol into my face, and cried
triumphantly,--‘You are my prisoner!’ while one of the sergeants raised
a lanthorn and threw its light into my eyes.
‘What folly is this?’ I said savagely.
The Lieutenant’s jaw fell, and he stood for a moment paralysed with
astonishment. Less than an hour before he had left me at the Chateau.
Thence he had come hither with the briefest delay; yet he found me here
before him. He swore fearfully, his face black, his moustachios stiff
with rage.
‘What is this? What is it?’ he cried. ‘Where is the man?’
‘What man?’ I said.
‘This Cocheforet!’ he roared, carried away by his passion. ‘Don’t lie to
me! He is here, and I will have him!’
‘You are too late,’ I said, watching him heedfully. ‘M. de Cocheforet is
here, but he has already surrendered to me, and is my prisoner.’
‘Your prisoner?’
‘Certainly!’ I answered, facing the man with all the harshness I could
muster. ‘I have arrested him by virtue of the Cardinal’s commission
granted to me. And by virtue of the same I shall keep him.’
‘You will keep him?’
‘I shall!’
He stared at me for a moment, utterly aghast; the picture of defeat.
Then on a sudden I saw his face lighten with, a new idea.
‘It is a d--d ruse!’ he shouted, brandishing his pistol like a madman.
‘It is a cheat and a fraud! By God! you have no commission! I see
through it! I see through it all! You have come here, and you have
hocussed us! You are of their side, and this is your last shift to save
him!’
‘What folly is this?’ I said contemptuously.
‘No folly at all,’ he answered, perfect conviction in his tone. ‘You
have played upon us. You have fooled us. But I see through it now. An
hour ago I exposed you to that fine Madame at the house there, and I
thought it a marvel that she did not believe me. I thought it a marvel
that she did not see through you, when you stood there before her,
confounded, tongue-tied, a rogue convicted. But I understand now. She
knew you. She was in the plot, and you were in the plot, and I, who
thought that I was opening her eyes, was the only one fooled. But it
is my turn now. You have played a bold part and a clever one,’ he
continued, a sinister light in his little eyes,’ and I congratulate you.
But it is at an end now, Monsieur. You took us in finely with your talk
of Monseigneur, and his commission and your commission, and the rest.
But I am not to be blinded any longer--or bullied. You have arrested
him, have you? You have arrested him. Well, by G--, I shall arrest him,
and I shall arrest you too.’
‘You are mad!’ I said staggered as much by this new view of the matter
as by his perfect certainty. ‘Mad, Lieutenant.’
‘I was,’ he snarled. ‘But I am sane now. I was mad when you imposed upon
us, when you persuaded me to think that you were fooling the women to
get the secret out of them, while all the time you were sheltering them,
protecting them, aiding them, and hiding him--then I was mad. But not
now. However, I ask your pardon. I thought you the cleverest sneak and
the dirtiest hound Heaven ever made. I find you are cleverer than I
thought, and an honest traitor. Your pardon.’
One of the men, who stood about the rim of the bowl above us, laughed. I
looked at the Lieutenant and could willingly have killed him.
‘MON DIEU!’ I said--and I was so furious in my turn that I could
scarcely speak. ‘Do you say that I am an impostor--that I do not hold
the Cardinal’s commission?’
‘I do say that,’ he answered coolly.
‘And that I belong to the rebel party?’
‘I do,’ he replied in the same tone. ‘In fact,’ with a grin, ‘I say that
you are an honest man on the wrong side, M. de Berault. And you say that
you are a scoundrel on the right. The advantage, however, is with me,
and I shall back my opinion by arresting you.’
A ripple of coarse laughter ran round the hollow. The sergeant who held
the lanthorn grinned, and a trooper at a distance called out of the
darkness ‘A BON CHAT BON RAT!’ This brought a fresh burst of laughter,
while I stood speechless, confounded by the stubbornness, the crassness,
the insolence of the man. ‘You fool!’ I cried at last, ‘you fool!’ And
then M. de Cocheforet, who had come out of the hut and taken his stand
at my elbow, interrupted me.
‘Pardon me one moment,’ he said, airily, looking at the Lieutenant with
raised eyebrows and pointing to me with his thumb, ‘but I am puzzled
between you. This gentleman’s name? Is it de Berault or de Barthe?’
‘I am M. de Berault,’ I said, brusquely, answering for myself.
‘Of Paris?’
‘Yes, Monsieur, of Paris.’
‘You are not, then, the gentleman who has been honouring my poor house
with his presence?’
‘Oh, yes!’ the Lieutenant struck in, grinning. ‘He is that gentleman,
too.’
‘But I thought--I understood that that was M. de Barthe!’
‘I am M. de Barthe, also,’ I retorted impatiently. ‘What of that,
Monsieur? It was my mother’s name. I took it when I came down here.’
‘To--er--to arrest me, may I ask?’
‘Yes,’ I said, doggedly; ‘to arrest you. What of that?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied slowly and with a steady look at me--a look I
could not meet. ‘Except that, had I known this before, M. de Berault I
should have thought longer before I surrendered to you.’
The Lieutenant laughed, and I felt my cheek burn; but I affected to
see nothing, and turned to him again. ‘Now, Monsieur,’ I said, ‘are you
satisfied?’
‘No,’ he answered? ‘I am not! You two may have rehearsed this pretty
scene a dozen times. The word, it seems to me, is--Quick march, back to
quarters.’
At length I found myself driven to play my last card; much against my
will.
‘Not so,’ I said. ‘I have my commission.’
‘Produce it!’ he replied incredulously.
‘Do you think that I carry it with me?’ I cried in scorn. ‘Do you think
that when I came here, alone, and not with fifty dragoons at my back, I
carried the Cardinal’s seal in my pocket for the first lackey to find.
But you shall have it. Where is that knave of mine?’
The words were scarcely out of my mouth before a ready hand thrust a
paper into my fingers. I opened it slowly, glanced at it, and amid a
pause of surprise gave it to the Lieutenant. He looked for a moment
confounded. Then, with a last instinct of suspicion, he bade the
sergeant hold up the lanthorn; and by its light he proceeded to spell
through the document.
‘Umph!’ he ejaculated with an ugly look when he had come to the end, ‘I
see.’ And he read it aloud:--
‘BY THESE PRESENTS, I COMMAND AND EMPOWER
GILLES DE BERAULT, SIER DE BERAULT, TO
SEEK FOR, HOLD, AND ARREST, AND DELIVER
TO THE GOVERNOR OF THE BASTILLE THE BODY
OF HENRI DE COCHEFORET, AND TO DO ALL
ACTS AND THINGS AS SHALL BE NECESSARY
TO EFFECT SUCH ARREST AND DELIVERY, FOR
WHICH THESE SHALL BE HIS WARRANT.
(Signed) THE CARDINAL DE RICHELIEU.’
When he had done--he read the signature with a peculiar
intonation--someone said softly, ‘VIVE LE ROI!’ and there was a moment’s
silence. The sergeant lowered his lanthorn. ‘Is it enough?’ I said
hoarsely, glaring from face to face.
The Lieutenant bowed stiffly.
‘For me?’ he said. ‘Quite, Monsieur. I beg your pardon again. I find
that my first impressions were the correct ones. Sergeant! give the
gentleman his papers!’ and, turning his shoulder rudely, he tossed the
commission to the sergeant, who gave it to me, grinning.
I knew that the clown would not fight, and he had his men round him; and
I had no choice but to swallow the insult. I put the paper in my breast,
with as much indifference as I could assume; and as I did so, he gave a
sharp order. The troopers began to form on the edge above; the men who
had descended to climb the bank again.
As the group behind him began to open and melt away, I caught sight of
a white robe in the middle of it. The next moment, appearing with a
suddenness which was like a blow on the cheek to me, Mademoiselle de
Cocheforet glided forward towards me. She had a hood on her head, drawn
low; and for a moment I could not see her face, I forgot her brother’s
presence at my elbow, I forgot other things, and, from habit and impulse
rather than calculation, I took a step forward to meet her; though my
tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, and I was dumb and trembling.
But she recoiled with such a look of white hate, of staring, frozen-eyed
abhorrence, that I stepped back as if she had indeed struck me. It did
not need the words which accompanied the look--the ‘DO NOT TOUCH ME!’
which she hissed at me as she drew her skirts together--to drive me to
the farther edge of the hollow; where I stood with clenched teeth, and
nails driven into the flesh, while she hung, sobbing tearless sobs, on
her brother’s neck.