For a moment the preacher clutched at this specious solace. He had paid two human lives for the one he had taken—would not the Almighty think that a fair exchange? But he lost the hope.
"There's no expiation, save one. Come away, Greta, and get to bed," he said doggedly.
As they re-crossed the bridge, Gabriel glanced instinctively towards the swirling water on their left. What gleams of light were abroad caught the tips of the wavelets, the slimy paddles of the wheel. He shivered as he watched; his mind flew back to that other stretch of water, where his friend was lying. The din and hurry of the mill-wheel seemed cheery by contrast with the silence of the quarry.
They passed through the door that opened into the miller's room. Greta set down her candle on the washing-stand.
"You want to get rid of me. What are you going to do, Gabriel?"
"Never mind, lass, never mind."
She took fright at his wildness of look; she feared he would do himself an injury if left alone. Forgetful of all else, she just held open her arms, and—
"Gabriel," she said softly, "stay with me. I can't bear to let you go."
Her cheeks grew red with shame when she had got half way through with the words; but what did anything—anything—matter, so only she could keep Gabriel from harm? So long she had waited for him; was she to lose him in the first flush of possession?