“Luke,” she cried; “Luke, are you mad? Oh, help, help, help!”
“Mad? Am I mad?” he said, hoarsely, as Sage’s shrieks rang out shrilly on the evening air. “Yes, I must be mad,” he muttered, as he rose slowly to his feet, and stood gazing down at his lost love, who now threw herself frantically upon her knees, and raised Cyril’s head upon her arm.
“And I came back for this,” said Luke, in a husky whisper—“for this!”
But she did not hear him; her mind being taken up with the horror of her position.
“I came back for this,” he continued, in the same low, husky tone. “I would not believe it true. Oh, Sage, Sage!” he groaned aloud, “it is more than I can bear.”
He staggered away along the lane by which he had come, hatless, his coat torn, his throat open, and the rain, that had now begun to fall, beating upon his fevered head. Footsteps were hurrying towards the spot where he had encountered her he loved and his rival. But he heard them not; he only staggered on—on into the gathering night, with a vague feeling that he must go away somewhere to find rest for his aching brain—anywhere to be away from her.
One moment he stopped, for he heard Sage’s voice raised in a loud cry; but it was not repeated, and with a bitter laugh, he now tore on at headlong speed, running not from pursuit, but from sheer desire for action. On and on, quite heedless of the direction he took, so that he might get away—onward and onward through the wind and rain.