"For the honor of your women, you cannot fight such a man," she added,
quietly.
"I wish I had the right to protect your honor," I said, so suddenly and
so bitterly that I surprised myself.
"Have you not?" she asked, gravely. "I am your kinswoman."
"Yes, yes, I know," I muttered, and fell to plucking at the lace on my
wristbands.
The dawn's chill was in the air, the dawn's silence, too, and I saw the
calm morning star on the horizon, watching the dark world--the dark, sad
world, lying so still, so patient, under the ancient sky.
That melancholy--which is an omen, too--left me benumbed, adrift in a
sort of pained contentment which alternately soothed and troubled, so
that at moments I almost drowsed, and at moments I heard my heart
stirring, as though in dull expectancy of beatitudes undreamed of.
Dorothy, too, sat listless, pensive, and in her eyes a sombre shadow,
such as falls on children's eyes at moments, leaving their
elders silent.
Once in the false dawn a cock crowed, and the shrill, far cry left the
raw air emptier and the silence more profound. I looked wistfully at the
maid beside me, chary of intrusion into the intimacy of her silence.
Presently her vague eyes met mine, and, as though I had spoken, she
said: "What is it?"
"Only this: I am sorry you are pledged."
"Why, cousin?"
"It is unfair."
"To whom?"
"To you. Bid him undo it and release you."
"What matters it?" she said, dully.
"To wed, one should love," I muttered.
"I cannot," she answered, without moving. "I would I could. This night
has witched me to wish for love--to desire it; and I sit here
a-thinking, a-thinking.... If love ever came to me I should think it
would come now--ere the dawn; here, where all is so dark and quiet and
close to God.... Cousin, this night, for the first moment in all my
life, I have desired love."
"To be loved?"
"No, ... to love."
I do not know how long our silence lasted; the faintest hint of silver
touched the sky above the eastern forest; a bird awoke, sleepily
twittering; another piped out fresh and clear, another, another; and, as
the pallid tint spread in the east, all the woodlands burst out ringing
into song.
In the house a door opened and a hoarse voice muttered thickly. Dorothy
paid no heed, but I rose and stepped into the hallway, where servants
were guiding the patroon to bed, and a man hung to the bronze-cannon
post, swaying and mumbling threats--Colonel Claus, wig awry, stock
unbuckled, and one shoe gone. Faugh! the stale, sour air sickened me.
Then a company of gentlemen issued from the dining-hall, and, as I
stepped back to the porch to give them room, their gray faces were
turned to me with meaningless smiles or blank inquiry.
"Where's my orderly?" hiccoughed Sir John Johnson. "Here, you, call my
rascals; get the chaises up! Dammy, I want my post-chaise, d' ye hear?"
Captain Campbell stumbled out to the lawn and fumbled about his lips
with a whistle, which he finally succeeded in blowing. This
accomplished, he gravely examined the sky.
"There they are," said Dorothy, quietly; and I saw, in the dim morning
light, a dozen horsemen stirring in the shadows of the stockade. And
presently the horses were brought up, followed by two post-chaises, with
sleepy post-boys sitting their saddles and men afoot trailing rifles.
Colonel Butler came out of the door with Magdalen Brant, who was half
asleep, and aided her to a chaise. Guy Johnson followed with Betty
Austin, his arm around her, and climbed in after her. Then Sir John
brought Claire Putnam to the other chaise, entering it himself behind
her. And the post-boys wheeled their horses out through the stockade,
followed at a gallop by the shadowy horsemen.
And now the Butlers, father and son, set toe to stirrup; and I saw
Walter Butler kick the servant who held his stirrup--why, I do not know,
unless the poor, tired fellow's hands shook.
Up into their saddles popped the Glencoe captains; then Campbell swore
an oath and dismounted to look for Colonel Claus; and presently two
blacks carried him out and set him in his saddle, which he clung to,
swaying like a ship in distress, his riding-boots slung around his neck,
stockinged toes clutching the stirrups.
Away they went, followed at a trot by the armed men on foot; fainter and
fainter sounded the clink, clink of their horses' hoofs, then died away.
In the silence, the east reddened to a flame tint. I turned to the open
doorway; Dorothy was gone, but old Cato stood there, withered hands
clasped, peaceful eyes on me.
"Mawnin', suh," he said, sweetly. "Yaas, suh, de night done gone and de
sun mos' up. H'it dat-a-way, Mars' George, suh, h'it jess natch'ly
dat-a-way in dishyere world--day, night, mo' day. What de Bible say?
Life, def, mo' life, suh. When we's daid we'll sho' find it dat-a-way."