“You must go back with her. She is weary of this life—sick of it and of me. I will remain here for a time. You hear me, don’t you, Frank? besides, it is necessary your eyes should be looked to. Of course,” he went on patiently, “I understand how you feel. I have seen that you have shunned me, but God knows, my lad, I would not have left you alone in the ruins if I could have helped it Frank, I tried to get back to you, but I was overcome by those cursed fumes. Do you believe it, Frank?”
“Ay, I believe it, Jim.”
“Ah!” he said with a sigh of relief. “Now will you take her back, my lad? Take her away out of this, and when you are once again back among your fellows, forget that ever I had the impudence to make a pact about her. Forget it, and win her.”
Hume withdrew his hand from his eyes, and, rising slowly, faced his friend, his worn face pale, his eyes burning from out that blackened mask.
“My God!” said Webster, drawing back. “But you can see,” he muttered.
“I can see—yes,” said Hume, in hollow tones. “See how you shrink from me. Do you ask me now to take her back?”
Webster said nothing, but a groan shook his frame, and he caught his friend’s hand and held it.
“You don’t speak?”
“The black will fade out. It is only powder.”
“Yes, and my eyebrows will grow,” he said with a bitter laugh, “and the red will disappear from my eyes; but before that she would have learnt to dread my presence. Do you still ask me to take her?”