The girl it was concerned him most—prominently for her own sake, but also because he might not guess what her seizure betokened, or what weak defences had made the fact of it possible. About her condition, or her safety in the midst of these lawless ruffians, his brain was too worn to speculate; but at least he could understand that the purpose for which she was held would not be allowed to perish upon itself of inaction.
He was only numbly conscious of the passing hours; the semi-torpor induced by cold and hunger deadened the pain of his scarified wrists, and he sat or lay huddled against the hearth unmoved to the least further effort of self-release. Sometimes, as evening crept on and darkened, he was aware, in a confused manner, of jangling sounds about the house that he dimly associated with the definite business of life—the rattle of pans and of crockery; the purr of rough voices strangely attuned to the pitch eloquent of the domestic virtues; later, a harsher medley of discords—the song, the quarrel, the crash of boisterous mirth, and often enough the thud of blows or shuffle of drunken feet. Intermittently through all, the penance-walk of the sentry in the passage went monotonously on, now dragging sullenly, now moved to some spasmodic briskness as the laugh bubbled high in the kitchen, now accented with a curse like a dog’s snap at a fly. Intermittently, too, came the hum of voices from the room opposite, sinking and swooping and moaning, as if a wind of evil thoughts were there gathering for any purpose of destruction.
And the night deepened, and the cold; and deep sank the expression of both into his tormented soul.
Once he thought he heard a window opened and the sound of voices in parley; and at that the least spark of hope flickered in him that negotiations (of what nature he was too stupefied to so much as remotely conceive) were in process on his behalf. But the murmur ceased and the glass was rattled to, and a profounder misery settled upon him that the little needle of light had showed itself to vanish.
He was abandoned to his fate; and about that he felt no bitterness. Only he greatly desired that the climax of his personal affairs should suffer no long postponement.
It may have been an hour short of midnight when, with his sad eyes fixed upon the moonlit square of window, his lids closed involuntarily and he sank into a sort of unresting stupor of the faculties. How long this travesty of sleep dwelt with him he might not know; but in an instant he had leapt from it and made as if to scramble to his feet. Something, that seemed to his disordered mind horribly suggestive of evil, had come between him and the white patch of the casement.
He tried to cry out, and found no power but for a sigh; and suddenly the shape was beside him, silently, on its knees, and an arm was round his neck and a soft hand upon his mouth.
“Betty, Betty, Betty!” whispered a tiny febrile voice in his ear—and instantly he knew, and, giving a little broken whinny, dropped his tired head upon her shoulder.
She clasped him, and she made no shame to kiss him with her lips like flowers; and then very gently, very pitifully, she passed her fingers over his right ear, over his left, and gave a heaving sigh from the bosom that lifted against his cheek.
“Oh, the cowards, the cowards!” she whispered, “to fright me so, and for a lie!”