"It's nothing," she said breathlessly. "When you are gone, he will recover. You must go now, Monsieur. Hurry, or harm will come----"
"To you?" eagerly.
"To you, Monsieur."
"I'm not frightened," he said with a grin.
"I know. But you must go at once. Here. This way. The gate is in the garden wall." And she opened the door and stood aside to let him pass. He took up the cap she had provided for him and paused a moment to offer her his hand.
"I thank you again, Mademoiselle."
She touched his fingers lightly but he caught her own and held them a moment.
"Good-by," he said gently.
"God bless and preserve you, Monsieur Rowlan'," she whispered.
He stepped out into the garden, the girl just behind him indicating the gate in the wall about fifty yards distant, the only exit from the enclosure. But as he emerged from the shadow of the house and turned up the path toward the gate a loud whistle sounded from the direction of the daïs, where the monkish figure that had been on guard rose suddenly, like a raven interrupted at a meal, flapping its wings and screaming discordantly. To his left in the wall of the house, doors flew open noisily and men emerged, Ivanitch, the shock-headed man, and another. They did not come toward Rowland but moved abreast of him as he went up the garden path, silent, watchful, keeping pace with him, like men in open order advancing in skirmish-line, Ivanitch nearest him, not more than three paces distant, Ivanitch the fantastic, Ivanitch the impossible. Rowland eyed him curiously. His face was moist with perspiration and the wisp of black hair was glued to his white forehead. His eyes no longer blazed for they were invisible under the dark thatch of his bent brows, but his figure and gait gave every token of the strange terror that had suddenly swept over him in the middle of their conversation last night.