Miss Schuyler did not wince; but the smile that was on her lips was absent from her eyes. “You once told me I should have him. Are you quite sure you would like to hand him over now?”
Hetty did not answer the question; instead, she blushed furiously. “We are talking nonsense—and I don’t know how I can face my father to-morrow,” she said.
It was at least an hour later, and the cow-boy below had ceased his pacing, when Hetty, who felt no inclination for sleep, fancied she heard a tapping at the window. She sprang suddenly upright, and saw apprehension in Miss Schuyler’s face. The cow-boys were some distance away, and a little verandah ran round that side of the house just below the window. Flora Schuyler had sufficient courage; but it was not of the kind which appears to advantage in the face of bodily peril, and the colour faded in her cheeks. It was quite certain now that somebody was tapping at or trying to open the window.
“Shake yourself together, Flo,” said Hetty, in a hoarse whisper. “When I tell you, turn the lamp down and open the door. I am going to see who is there.”
The next moment she had opened a drawer of the bureau, while as she stepped forward with something glinting in her hand, Flora Schuyler, who heard a whispered word, turned the lamp right out in her confusion, and, because she dared not stand still, crept after her companion. With a swift motion, Hetty drew the window-curtains back, and Miss Schuyler gasped. The stars were shining outside, and the dark figure of a man was silhouetted against the blue clearness of the night.
“Come back,” she cried. “Oh, he’s coming in. Hetty, I must scream.”
Hetty’s fingers closed upon her arm with a cruel grip. “Stop,” she said. “If you do, they’ll shoot him. Don’t be a fool, Flo.”
It was too dark to see clearly, but Flora Schuyler realized with a painful fluttering of her heart and a great relief whose the white face outside the window must be.