There was a strange light in his eyes, as he stood with his head thrown back, the glass of meth in his hand, and as he drank down its contents, a deadly paleness spread over his face. Sitting down again he drew a long breath, and his hand trembled visibly as he replaced the glass on the table.
"Canst thank him, Gwladys?" asked Hugh, looking keenly at his wife, who shook her head with a smile on her lips which looked unnatural and strained.
"Well, I will, then! Ivor, they are fair words, none could be better, and I thank thee for them."
"Words!" said Ivor, starting to his feet, and stretching out his hand across the table, "Hugh Morgan! there are no words which could ever make plain my friendship for thee. Health and happiness to thee and thy sweet wife! God knows I would gladly shed my blood to bring it to thee!"
"Good, then!" said Hugh, taking his hand; "there's no more to be said. Art going? Well, it is late, I suppose. Nos da!"
"Yes, and a storm is rising. Nos da, Mishtress," said Ivor as he left the house.
It was true the storm was rising fast, dark clouds scudded over the moon, the wind moaned and wailed round the cliffs, the sea seemed to swell and lash itself into threatening fury, and Ivor felt the tumult of the elements accorded well with his feelings.
"Dear God!" he exclaimed, as he made his way through the buffeting wind, "I can never go through that again—never! never! not even to please thee, Hugh Morgan."
Meanwhile, in the cottage, Gwladys was clearing away the remains of the supper, and endeavouring by busy employment to cover the distressing awkwardness which her husband's manner had awoke in her. As she passed him sitting thoughtful under the chimney, he rose, and drawing her towards him, held her face between his two hands, and, gazing steadily at her:
"Dost hide any secret from me behind those brown eyes?" he asked, in a serious, tender tone; and before his honest black eyes her own quailed, and a deep crimson flooded her face.