“Yes, yes, I will attend to it.”
As he spoke, Turner followed the young man into the next room, watching him as he walked down the long perspective of a neighboring gallery.
When certain that he was quite alone, the old man came to the window and stepped behind the drapery. He was very pale, and I saw by the nervous motion of his hands that he was subduing his agitation with difficulty.
“Zana,” he whispered, huskily, “I am going in; after a little, follow me with the fruit you will find yonder. Bring it in, quietly, as if you were one of the people. Then obey my directions as they would? Do you comprehend?”
“Perfectly,” I whispered, trembling from head to foot, but resolute to act.
“Now God be with us!” he ejaculated, wringing my hand.
“Amen!” trembled on my lip, but I could not speak.
He left me and entered the chamber. I waited a moment, holding one hand over my heart, which frightened me with its strange beating. Then I stepped forth and looked around the room. It was a sort of ante-chamber, large and richly furnished, but somewhat in disorder, as if lately used. Upon a marble table in one corner stood some crystal flasks ruby with wine, and with them a small silver basket full of fruit, with a vase of flowers crowded close to it.
Even then the rude way in which these exquisite objects were huddled together wounded my sense of the beautiful; and with my trembling hands I hastily arranged the fruit, mingled snowy and golden flowers with the rich glow of the cherries, and shaded the strawberries with cool green leaves. As I gathered a handful of creamy white raspberries in the centre of the basket with trembling haste, Turner opened the door and looked out. His face, so pale and anxious, startled me, and I almost let the basket fall.
He closed the door, and nerving myself I lifted the fruit again and carried it forward. One moment’s pause and I went in.