For the sheer nervous relief had set Hugh choking and sobbing again without pride or strength enough left to hold himself in check. As the darkness closed in, however, he grew a little calmer, though sheer exhaustion more than inner comfort held him quiet. His eyes were hot and smarting, and his throat ached, so he crept over to the chest where the food was placed, and laying hands on a jug of water gulped down a good deal and splashed some over his face. After that he stretched himself again upon the floor, where for pure weariness he dropped at length into a heavy sleep.
He awoke in darkness, his blood tingling and his pulses a-jump in a childish momentary fear at the strangeness of the place and a something else he could not define. He had recollected his position and laid down his head again, with a little effort to place himself more comfortably upon the floor, when there came a second time the noise that must have wakened him,—a stealthy faint click of the latch, as if the door were being softly opened. Hugh sprang to his feet and set his back to the wall, in the best position for defence, if it were some enemy, if it were Captain Oldesworth came seeking him. The door was opening, he perceived, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. “Who is it?” he asked in a guarded tone.
“Hush! ’Tis I, Lois.”
Hugh caught his breath in a gasp of relief. “Lois, you’ve come to free me?” he whispered, and, stepping softly to her, fumbled in the dark and found her hand.
“Yes, yes. I was afraid for you. I told Master Oldesworth that Peregrine was bragging how the captain would serve you. He saved you that time. But ’tis possible the captain will lay hands on you again. I slipped into Master Oldesworth’s chamber and took the key. I know ’tis wicked; I care not. Pull off your boots and come away, quick.”
Noiselessly as he could, Hugh got his boots in his hand and in his stockinged feet stole out of the chamber. In the corridor it was all black and still, just as it had been that other time when he ran from Everscombe, only now Lois was with him, and when the stairs creaked they pressed close together. Then she went forward boldly, and he, still half-blinded with sleep, was content to follow the guidance of her hand. “In here,” she whispered at length, and so led him into the east parlor, where the great clock still ticked, solemn and unperturbed. “Go out at the window,” Lois spoke softly; “I dare not open the door. There are a few men in the house, but they lie in the west wing and the stables. The bulk are at Kingsford. Northward you will find the way clear.”
“I am not going northward,” Hugh answered, as he warily pushed open the casement. “I go to my father now.”
“Hugh!” The girl’s voice came in a frightened gasp. “I had not released you— If you come unto them at last— They wish it not— You may be killed! You shall not do this thing.”
Leaning from the casement Hugh dropped his boots carefully where the dark showed an edge of grass bordered the flagged walk; as he set himself astride the window ledge he spoke: “’Tis just the thing I shall do, Lois, and the only thing. If you be sorry for what you did, call, if you will, but I shall jump and run for it.”
“I shall not call,” she answered. “Oh, I care not who has the right and wrong of the war. I cannot bear they should hurt you.”