‘What is that?’ exclaimed Hugh Norris, starting to his feet, his senses always acutely alive to possible danger. ‘There is some one in your father’s bedroom. Stand aside, Lizzie, and let me see who it is.’
He seized his stick—his only weapon—as he spoke, and was about to try the locked door. But she interposed herself between him and it.
‘You cannot enter that room, Captain Norris. It is fastened.’
‘Then some one—a mutineer, perhaps—must have got in by the window. I am certain my ears did not deceive me. The sound we heard proceeded from that room, and I must satisfy myself on the subject.’
He was about to pass her, when she put out her hand to prevent him, and he observed how very pale and strained her face (but a few moments ago so smiling) had suddenly become.
‘Captain Norris, I hold this room sacred to myself, and neither you, nor any man, shall cross the threshold.’
He looked full at her then in his amazement, and the truth seemed to flash suddenly upon him.
‘You have been deceiving me!’ he exclaimed; ‘you have some one concealed there whom you are ashamed to tell me of! Who is it?’ he continued, in a low voice, which threatened danger,—‘that blackguard De Courcelles, who would have slaughtered every European in the Fort, if he had had his way, and whom I hear has been in hiding ever since?’
Lizzie was silent. Twice her mouth opened to utter a lie in the defence of her former lover, and twice it died unuttered on her lips. Hugh Norris knew her too well to misinterpret her want of courage. He threw her one look of deep reproach, and, turning away, sat down by the table, and buried his face in his hands. Lizzie could not withstand the action. She crept after him, and laid her hand timidly upon his shoulder.
‘Hugh,’ she whispered, ‘Hugh—’