"Be careful," he said again. "Remember I am running a ghastly risk in telling you. But you are facing a ghastly certainty if I don't."
I sat in that stillness of stark terror—staring at him.
And as I stared I found myself clinging to the thought that had been horror's height a little while before. "Pray God he's mad," I kept saying inwardly.
If I could keep my head, he said, I had no cause to be so frightened. It would be some little time before he could give me up without rousing suspicion.
"Before you give me up!" I imagined the Grey Hawk swooping to snatch me.
"Before I help you to get out of this," he explained. "And when I do, you will perhaps remember it is at a sacrifice. Greater than I supposed I could feel."
I moved at that—but like a sleep-walker on the edge of waking.
I asked him in a whisper what we were to do. I meant Betty and me. But he said: "When she begins to play, or to sing, you are to get up quite quietly—can you?"
I made a sign for yes.
"No haste ... you must do it languidly—go out of the room."