“Sometimes,” he said, “methinks that I shall kill you!”
“Would you gain your end thereby?” she answered, in a voice as low and deadly.
“I would frustrate his—and yours.”
“Do it, then,” she hissed back, “some day when you think I fear you.”
“’Twould be too easy,” he answered. “You fear it too little. There are bitterer things.”
She rose and met his Grace, who had approached her. Always to his greatness and his noble heart she turned with that new feeling of dependence which her whole life had never brought to her before. His deep eyes, falling on her tenderly as she rose, were filled with protecting concern. Involuntarily he hastened his steps.
“Will your Grace take me to my coach?” she said. “I am not well. May I—go?” as gently as a tender, appealing girl.
And moved by this, as by her pallor, more than his man’s words could have told, he gave her his arm and drew her quickly and supportingly away.
Mistress Anne did not sleep well that night, having much to distract her mind and keep her awake, as was often in these days the case. When at length she closed her eyes her slumber was fitful and broken by dreams, and in the mid hour of the darkness she wakened with a start as if some sound had aroused her. Perhaps there had been some sound, though all was still when she opened her eyes; but in the chair by her bedside sat Clorinda in her night-rail, her hands wrung hard together on her knee, her black eyes staring under a brow knit into straight deep lines.
“Sister!” cried Anne, starting up in bed. “Sister!”