“What did his father refuse?”
“All I am worth—five lakhs of rupees. He said a million would be equally useless.”
“Hilda! You did not do this?”
“I did. I would not have told you at any other time. But now—nothing seems to matter. Nothing—nothing.”
Words failed him, failed them both—but their understanding was complete; even as it had been during their wanderings together. Then nothing had been said, but every tone, every glance, had been an understanding in itself. And time was so precious.
“Listen, Herbert. I have a plan. You shall put on my clothes, and pass out instead of me. By stooping a little you can diminish your height. And the veil will do the rest.”
“And these?” he said, clinking his fetters.
“Ah, I forgot. Heaven help me, I forgot,” she cried.
“Do you think, in any case, I would have agreed to save my precious skin at the price of leaving you in their power? Why, Hilda, I wonder you thought me worth stirring a finger for, at all.”
She looked at him, long and earnestly and hopelessly, as though to photograph his image in her brain. How ill he looked, pale and haggard, and hollow cheeked. It was not much of a time for thinking of appearances, but he felt thankful that the advantages of the Mahomedan injunctions of cleanliness had been extended to him—a prisoner.