“Mary Salis! or am I mad indeed?” ejaculated the wretched man.
He stood motionless, staring at the window as a white arm was forced through the broken glass, and the catch thrust back, but not so quickly but that a deep red stain had time to show; for the jagged glass made an ugly gash above the white wrist, though it was unheeded, and the casement was flung open.
“The door—open that door!” North did not stir, but stood gazing wildly at the pallid face before him, and then he passed his hands across his eyes and tottered to the window, as if drawn there by the eyes which gazed into his.
“Quick! the door—open this door!” was panted forth.
He obeyed mechanically without taking his eyes from the window, feeling his way to the door, and slowly opening it, to stand gazing at Mary Salis, as she caught his hands in hers.
“What were you going to do?” she cried piteously. “You, too, of all men! You must be mad—you must be mad!”
“Yes,” he said vacantly; “they say so. I must be mad, or is—is it past—a dream? Mary Salis—you!”
“What’s that?” cried Mary excitedly, as the sound of the breaking door was heard. North uttered a sigh.
“They are coming,” he cried, “and I shall be too late. Loose my arm—loose my arm!”
“No, no, no!” panted Mary, as she flung herself upon his breast. “It is what I feared; I believed it, and I came. Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t do that!”