PRISONERS IN THE DARK
Orme’s hand still held her skirt.
“Girl!” he whispered.
“Yes. Are you hurt?”
Her voice came to him softly with all its solicitude and sympathy. She knelt, to help him if need be, and her warm, supple hand rested gently on his forehead. He could have remained for a long time as he was, content with her touch, but his good sense told him that their safety demanded action.
“Not hurt at all,” he said, and as she withdrew her hand, he arose. “Alcatrante caught me off guard,” he explained.
“Yes, I saw him. There wasn’t time to warn you.”
“He has been dogging me for an hour,” Orme continued. “I felt as though he were sitting on my shoulders, like an Old Man of the Sea.”
“I know him of old,” she replied. “He is never to be trusted.”
“But you—how did you happen to be here, in the Rookery?”