“Mary!”
There was such a depth of love, such intensity in the tone in which he uttered her name, that she moaned aloud.
“Ah, you are in pain!” he cried.
“In pain for you,” she whispered, “for you suffer for my sake. Hist! Do you hear?”
She clung to him tightly.
“No,” he said, “there is nothing.”
“Yes,” she said, softly. “Steps. I can hear them—they are coming back.”
He listened once more, but his ears were wanting in the preternatural keenness brought on by his companion’s exalted nerves. He heard nothing for a few moments, and then with a start he seized the sword, for steps were faintly heard now to grow plainer and plainer till they were close overhead.
Mary signed to him to listen; and at that moment the stone slab moved gently a few inches, for someone had seated himself upon the edge, and the buzz of talking was heard.
“Now, my lad,” cried a hoarse, drink-engendered voice, which came plainly to where they crouched, “you know all about it, and I’m captain now. Where’s that prisoner?”