“Now you understand!” she said. “And you did come to help me, didn’t you?”
This time his silence was deliberate, and not due to any confusion in his thoughts. The blood in his veins spoke clearly to him. What those other Rosses had condemned, he, too, condemned. He was like them. This girl was altogether strange, exotic, and dangerous, and he wanted to get away from her.
It was his gift, however, to show no sign of whatever he might be thinking; his face was expressionless, and she read what she chose there. She came nearer to him, and laid her hand on his arm.
“You will help me?” she said, softly.
He looked down at her gravely. He knew that she was willfully attempting to charm him—and how he did scorn anything of that sort! And yet—He looked at her as some long forgotten Ross of Salem might have looked at a bonny young witch. The creature was dangerous, and yet—Bonny she was, and a young man is a young man.
“I don’t see,” he began, doubtfully,[Pg 452] when suddenly she cried: “Look!” and pointed to the window. He turned, startled, but he saw nothing there.
“It’s getting light!” she cried.
That was true enough. The sky was not black now, but all gray, pallid, swept clean of clouds. The rain had ceased, but the mighty wind still blew, and the tops of the trees bowed and bent before it, like inky marionettes before a pale curtain. There was no sign yet of the sun, but you could feel that the dawn was coming.
“What of it?” asked Ross, briefly.
“It’s the last day!” she answered.