"Then I will go along with you until you meet the person whose whistle you hear. You do not imagine that I will allow you to go alone?"
She leaned toward him impulsively, placing her hand down upon his shoulder.
"Listen," she said softly, "I heard no whistle. There is no one waiting for me. A moment ago it seemed easy to lie to you, to make you believe things that were not absolutely true, but I can't do it now, nor again—ever. You think I am heartless, a creature of stone—indifferent. It isn't so. My heart has held a little place for aching all these years. Think of me as half-witted,—idiotic,—but not that. Listen to me. You have such a heart—such tenderness—you are good and kind. You will understand me—or try to, and not be offended. I want to go home by myself. I must go back alone. There is a reason which I will tell you—sometime. I ask as a favor—as a friend to a friend, that you will stay behind."
"But are you not afraid?"
She interrupted him. "Afraid? Not I! Why, I was born here, and am a part of it, and it of me! Ask your men there, they know. I want to ride like the wind—alone—ahead of the storm, to get there soon. I am tired." Her low, quick speech bewildered him. Her words were too inconsistent, too hurried, to convey any real meaning.
"Will you ride with one of my men?" he asked.
"Oh, why can't you let me do as I wish!" she cried impatiently. "I want to go alone."
"It seems quite evident that you do not want my company, but one of the men must go and take a lantern. It's too dark to see the road." His tone was decisive.
She leaned toward him again. This time her words fell harshly.