"Madam," said he, "it is best it should be 'good-bye'—for both of us, it is best."
He spoke very truly, poor young man, but into the touch of his lips and the pathos of his speech her vanity read another meaning.
"Cousin!" she cried suddenly, and clutched at his hands with both of hers. "O, take me with you! Take me back to my own people! If I stay here, he will kill me, or I shall kill myself!"
And, as his troubled face and involuntarily repelling fingers were far from giving her the response they craved, she rushed across and bent over the crumbling parapet.
"Refuse your help," she cried desperately, "and I throw myself down!"
(Had little Sidonia but been at hand, to tell him how well accustomed she was to such threats!)
Steven was quite pale as he caught her back against his shoulders.
"Mercy!" he shivered, thinking of those giddy deeps. She clung to him, her scented head against his shoulders.
"Surely, surely, it is not much I ask!" she murmured faintly. "See how I trust you, kinsman! Only your protection, your escort back to our own people. It is not much to ask!"
It meant his whole life, and he knew it. But what can a young man do with a woman's arms about him and a woman's whisper pleading in his ears?