“Teresa,”—Gordon sought for words through the dizziness that was engulfing him,—“leave me. My horse is in the edge of the forest. At Bologna I shall find a surgeon.”
“You cannot ride. It would kill you. My carriage is near the convent gate.”
He shook his head. “You have risked enough for me. Tita,—”
“He can bring the horse around,” she answered. “Come!” She drew one of Gordon’s arms about her shoulder, feeling him waver. “That is right—so!”
With Tita on the other side, they began the descent. She walked certainly along the difficult path, though every nerve was thrilling with agony, her mind one incessant clamor. At the expense of his own heart he had stayed away. And this was what their chance meeting to-day had brought him. This!
Gordon was breathing hard at the foot of the hill. He had fought desperately to retain consciousness, but a film was clouding his eyes.
“It is only a few steps now,” she said, “to the carriage.”
He stopped short.
“You must obey me,” she insisted wildly, her voice vibrating. “It is the only way! You must go to Ravenna!”
“Tita—bring my horse!”