His face lost its glow. Over in the town her brother faced a ruined life, and the girl beside him a dark humiliation and a shame which would poison her life hereafter, unless—his look turned to the little house where the quack-doctor lived. He loosed her hands.
“Now for Caliban,” he said.
“I shall be Ariel and follow you—in my heart,” she said. “Be sure and make him tell you the story of his life,” she added, with a laugh, as his lips swept the hair behind her ears.
As he moved swiftly away, watching his long strides, she said, proudly, “As deep as the sea.”
After a moment she added: “And he was once a gambler, until, until” she—glanced at the open book, then with sweet mockery looked at her hands—“until ‘those lucid, perfect hands bound me to the mast of your destiny.’ O vain Diana! But they are rather beautiful,” she added, softly, “and I am rather happy.” There was something like a gay little chuckle in her throat.
“O vain Diana!” she repeated.
Rawley entered the door of the hut on the hill without ceremony. There was no need for courtesy, and the work he had come to do could be easier done without it.
Old Busby was crouched over a table, his mouth lapping milk from a full bowl on the table. He scarcely raised his head when Rawley entered—through the open door he had seen his visitor coming. He sipped on, his straggling beard dripping. There was silence for a time.
“What do you want?” he growled at last.