With this her thoughts grew more restful. She no longer felt afraid though still she stood alone. He was speaking.
“Do you remember,” he asked gently, “what I told you about the true adventurers?”
“About the little children?” she answered nodding.
“And about the lovers?” he added.
“Yes,” she was forced to admit.
He had spoken of the dangers in a way that had frightened her. Looking down upon this same scene he had pointed them all out to her. And yet now it was difficult to grasp them.
“When two go adventuring hand in hand the dangers are halved,” he said.
It was as though he had answered her unspoken thought.
“Then,” he added, “they are halved again and then halved once more until they are all gone.”
Her eyes had grown distant. Her breath was coming in little gasps. The true explanation of these last weeks came in upon her now. Twice she had seen in a man’s eyes the dumb pain of an unuttered tragedy, but now she remembered only the first time,—when the one man had left her to go back to New York. In sudden fear she turned to see if any trace of the pain were still there. She found herself looking into blue eyes which were as quick with fine gold as the sky itself. They made her dizzy. She tottered. Then she felt herself in the grasp of strong arms.