"I am ready to accompany you," said the Advocate.
"And I," said Vanbrugh.
"No," said the priest, "only he and I. Who you are I do not seek to know, but you cannot accompany us."
"Remain here," said the Advocate to Vanbrugh; "when I return I will hide nothing from you. Now, Father Capel."
It was not possible for them to engage in conversation. The roaring of the wind prevented a word from being heard. For mutual safety they clasped hands and proceeded on their way. They encountered many dangers, but escaped them. Torrents of water poured down from the ranges--great branches snapped from the trees and fell across their path--the valleys were in places knee-deep in water--and occasionally they fancied they heard cries of human distress in the distance. If the priest had not been perfectly familiar with the locality, they would not have arrived at their destination, but he guided his companion through the storm, and they stood at length before the cottage in which Pauline lay.
Father Capel lifted the latch, and pulled the Advocate after him into the room.
There were but two apartments in the cottage. Pauline lay in the room at the back. In a corner of the room in which they found themselves a man lay asleep; his wife was sitting in a chair, watching and waiting. She rose wearily as the priest and the Advocate entered.
"I am glad you have come, father," she said, "she has been very restless, and once she gave a shriek, like a death-shriek, which curdled my blood. She woke and frightened my child."
She pointed to a baby-girl, scarcely eighteen months old, who was lying by her father with her eyes wide open. The child, startled by the entrance of strangers, ran to her mother, who took her on her lap, saying petulantly, "There, there--be quiet. The gentlemen won't hurt you."
"Is Pauline awake now?" asked Father Capel.