“These men are not the ones who just fled,” he replied.
“Then who are they?” she half-whispered, drawing unconsciously closer in that moment of jeopardy, her face distant but a curl’s length.
Below the men were dismounting, tying their horses among the trees. Like a noisy band of troopers they were talking excitedly, but their words were indistinguishable.
“Why do you suppose they fled from them?” she continued.
Was it a tendril of the vine that touched his cheek gently? He started, his face toward the haze in the open borderland.
“Clearly these men are not the lease-holders. They may be seeking you.”
She turned eagerly from the window. In the darkness their hands met. Momentary compunction made her pause.
“I haven’t yet thanked you!” And he felt the cold, nervous pressure of her hands on his. “You must have ridden very hard and very far!”
His hand closed suddenly upon one of hers. He was not thinking of the ride, but of how she had placed herself beside him in his moment of peril; how she had held them––not long––but a moment––yet long enough!