He was very ill. She was not afraid. Fate was here—and she told Japhra he would recover.
She found him in the van, his pipe alight again and staring in a dullish way at the vacant places whence Percival's belongings had been removed. He came down to her, and when she told him her belief he had a strange look and a long look into her eyes before he answered. He had marked the tearlessness that went curiously with her devotion when he had brought her to Percival; he marked now some strange appearance she had for him and some strange note in her voice when she told him "He will recover."
"Ay, mistress," he said. "Have no fear. He will recover."
For her own part she marked also some strange look in the strangely strong eyes that regarded her.
She asked "But why are you so confident?"
He noticed the "But." "Mistress, because his type is made for a bigger thing than he has yet met."
To that—meeting so strongly the truth she knew—she replied: "Yes!—yes!"
At her tone he came a sudden step to her. "Mistress, is it in thy hands, this thing he must meet?"
She, by the influence of this meeting, stood caught up and dizzy by return to her in dreadful violence of that old fluttering within her brain.
Japhra in stern and sudden voice: "Beware it!"