“Another slave to a woman’s charms!” he said, with a bitter laugh. “Poor old Percy! how can I blame him after what I have done myself for a weak, contemptible woman’s sake?”
He stopped short, grinding his teeth together in resentment against himself; for Myra’s sadly wasted face rose before him with her eyes full of reproach.
“It is not true,” he cried; “it is not true. She could not help herself. They have driven her to it, or else—No, no, I cannot think.”
He moved on toward the cottage, threading his way more by instinct than sight among the rocks, but only to stop short again, horrified by the thought that now assailed him. That man—Barron or Dale—it was not safe that he should be trusted with Myra. It was madness after what had taken place.
He thrust his fingers into his ears as if to shut out the voice that seemed to urge these things upon him; but the voice was within, and he hastened on more rapidly till he reached the cottage, where the fisherman’s wife was bathing Brettison’s forehead, and she gave him a frightened look as he entered.
His old friend’s eyes were opened, and he looked wildly at Stratton as he entered, and feebly raised one hand.
“Dale!” he whispered as he clung to Stratton.
“Hush! don’t talk.”
“I—must,” he said feebly. “Mind that he does not leave the place. To-night you must get help and take him away.”
“I am right, then—he did attack you?”