But suddenly she started and bent her head. It seemed as if her whole body were hearkening. Now she rose quickly to her feet, dropped her work upon the table near by, and rested herself against it, still listening. She was sure she heard a horse’s hoofs. Turning swiftly, she drew the curtain of the bed before her sleeping child, and then stood quiet waiting—waiting. Her hand went to her heart once as though its fierce throbbing hurt her. Plainly as though she could look through these stone walls into clear sunlight, she saw some one dismount, and she heard a voice.
The door of the but was unlocked and unbarred. If she feared, it was easy to shoot the bolt and lock the door, to drop the bar across the little window, and be safe and secure. But no bodily fear possessed her—only that terror of the spirit when its great trial comes suddenly and it shrinks back, though the mind be of faultless courage.
She waited. There came a knocking at the door. She did not move from where she stood.
“Come in,” she said. She was composed and resolute now.
The latch clicked, the door opened, and a cloaked figure entered, the shriek of the storm behind. The door closed again. The intruder took a step forward, his hat came off, the cloak was loosed and dropped upon the floor. Guida’s premonition had been right: It was Philip.
She did not speak. A stone could have been no colder as she stood in the light of the fire, her face still and strong, the eyes darkling, luminous. There was on her the dignity of the fearless, the pure in heart.
“Guida!” Philip said, and took a step nearer, and paused.
He was haggard, he had the look of one who had come upon a desperate errand. When she did not answer he said pleadingly:
“Guida, won’t you speak to me?”
“The Duc de Bercy chooses a strange hour for his visit,” she said quietly.