Renwick was hatless, tattered, covered with dust, his face streaked with grime and sweat, and the short beard that he wore still further transformed him. But it seemed that a look of recognition struggled with the terror in her eyes.
"You, Hugh—again!" she whispered.
A pang shot through him at the pitiful sound of her voice and at the words. Had her sufferings——
"Your spirit. It has—has been—with me often, Hugh." She went on dreamily.
"Marishka!" he whispered, crossing to her swiftly. "It is I—Hugh. It is no dream, no vision. Awake!"
She brushed an arm across her eyes like one arousing from a deep sleep, and then straightened suddenly and still uncertainly. But he caught her by the arm and brought her face close to his own so that she might see.
"I didn't die, dear. I am here in the flesh—to protect—to take you away from this place."
"Then I—I have not dreamed?"
"Not now?"
She clasped his wrists, his shoulders, his face with her hands to assure herself of the truth, and he took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.