“How good of you!” he said, taking the plate from her, and also the glass of brandy-and-water which she had mixed for him, “Why, what have you there? A shooting iron?”
“Of course. You don’t suppose I was going to leave my gun behind when we are in a state of siege, do you?”
She carried a double-barrelled breech-loader—rifle and shot cartridge—and there was a warrior flash in her eyes visible in the moonlight, which told that she meant to use it, too, if occasion required.
“It is very lonely for you, watching all by yourself,” she continued. “I thought I would come and keep you company.”
“So like you again. But look here, Marian dear. You must not be exposed to danger. Single-handed I can make such an example of the schepsels that they’ll probably turn and run. Still, they might let fly a shot or two. You will go back to the others if I ask you—will you not?”
Her heart thrilled tumultuously within her. In the darkness she need be at no pains to conceal the tell-tale expression of her face. Ah, but—his tones, though affectionate, were merely brotherly. That might be, but still, whatever peril he might undergo, it should be her privilege to share it—her sweet privilege—and she would share it.
“No; I will not,” she answered decisively. “I can be as cool as any one living, man or woman. Feel my hand; there is not a tremble in it.” And her fingers closed round his in a firm, steady clasp, in which there was nothing nervous, nothing spasmodic.
“I believe you can,” he answered, “but I was thinking of your safety.”
“My safety!” she interrupted. Then in a different tone, “How do you suppose they’ll come, Renshaw? Walk openly to the house or try to creep up in the shadow?”
“The last. You see they showed their hand by tackling me upon the road. Yet they may think I’ve turned in and bothered no more about it. Hallo!”