“I am not fit for the journey; never heed me; go you home on the instant; I'll follow. For shame of you to come here risking your precious life.”
“It is not so precious as thine,” said Gerard. “But let that pass; we will go home together, and on the instant.”
“Nay, I have some matters to do in the town. Go thou at once, and I will follow forthwith.”
“Leave thee alone in a plague-stricken town? To whom speak you, dear Margaret?”
“Nay, then, we shall quarrel, Gerard.”
“Methinks I see Margaret and Gerard quarrelling! Why, it takes two to quarrel, and we are but one.”
With this Gerard smiled on her sweetly. But there was no kind responsive glance. She looked cold, gloomy, and troubled.
He sighed, and sat patiently down opposite her with his face all puzzled and saddened. He said nothing, for he felt sure she would explain her capricious conduct, or it would explain itself.
Presently she rose hastily, and tried to reach her bedroom, but on the way she staggered and put out her hand. He ran to her with a cry of alarm. She swooned in his arms. He laid her gently on the ground, and beat her cold hands, and ran to her bedroom, and fetched water, and sprinkled her pale face. His own was scarce less pale, for in a basin he had seen water stained with blood; it alarmed him, he knew not why. She was a long time ere she revived, and when she did she found Gerard holding her hand, and bending over her with a look of infinite concern and tenderness. She seemed at first as if she responded to it, but the next moment her eyes dilated, and she cried—“Ah, wretch, leave my hand; how dare you touch me?”
“Heaven help her!” said Gerard. “She is not herself.”