“Come down softly and open the door,” said Arthur, “I wish to speak to you.”
Louis hastily descended, and unlocked the door.
His astonishment, on seeing his sister with Arthur Hazleton, at that hour, when he supposed her in her own room, was so great that he held the door in his hand, without speaking or offering to admit them.
“Let us in as noiselessly as possible,” said Arthur. “Take her directly to her chamber, kindle a fire, give her a generous glass of Port wine, and question her not to-night. Let no servant be roused. Wait upon her yourself, and be silent on the morrow. Good-night.”
“It is too bright,” whispered she, as Louis half carried her up stairs, stepping over the checker-work the moon made on the carpet.
“What is too bright, Mittie?”
“Nothing. Make haste—I am very cold.”
Louis led Mittie to a chair, then lighting a candle, he knelt down and gathered together the still smoking brands. A bright fire soon blazed on the hearth, and illuminated the apartment.
“Now for the wine,” said he.
“He is gone, Louis,” said she, laying her hand on his arm. “He is fled. I released him. Was it not noble in me, when he loves Helen, and he a thief, too?”