“What makes you think that they will break in here, sir?” asked John Maine.
“Because there are no iron bars to the window, and no one sleeps overhead. Now, then, all’s ready, so we’ll go upstairs.”
“But won’t you stay and stop them from getting in, sir?”
“Certainly not, Maine. Let them walk into the trap, and we will keep awake as well as we can in the dark.”
Lighting a chamber candle, the vicar turned out the lamps, and led the way to his bedroom, where, after placing an easy chair for his companion, he apparently busied himself for a quarter of an hour in undressing, taking care to cast his shadow several times upon the window-blind, then placing matches ready, and the door open, he extinguished the light.
“Half-past ten, Maine,” he whispered. “Now for a long watch. Can you keep awake?”
“I think so, sir,” was the reply. “Good; then listen attentively, and warn me of the slightest sound, but no word must be spoken above a whisper. No conversation.”
One hour in the solemn silence of the night, and no sound was heard. Once the vicar stretched out his hand to have it pressed in reply by way of showing that his companion was on the alert.
Another hour passed, and all was perfectly still. The vicar had had no difficulty in keeping awake, for his thoughts were upon the scene that had taken place up at the House; and though he strove to drive away the remembrance, and to nerve himself for the struggle that must be his for weeks to come, there was Eve Pelly’s sweet gentle face before him, seeming to ask him wistfully to accede to her wish.
At last John Maine, believing him to be asleep, touched his arm.