She was standing, a mass of shadow, at the very verge of the little wharf, distant not more than three yards in front of me. A moment later I had silently gained her side, stretched out my hand, and laid firm hold upon her by the arm.
In great and entirely natural terror, she started back: as luck would have it, not in the direction of the water, for else she had certainly tumbled in, perhaps dragging me with her. And though she uttered no articulate sound, she caught her breath in a sharp spasmodic gasp, and I could feel her tremble violently under my touch.
I sought to reassure her.
“Do not be alarmed,” I said, speaking as gently as I could; “I mean you no manner of evil. I saw you come down here from the street above; and it struck me as hardly a safe place for a person of your sex to visit alone at such an hour.”
She made no answer. A prolonged shudder swept over her, and she drew a deep long sigh.
“You have no reason to fear me,” I continued. “I have only come to you for the purpose of protecting you, of being of service to you, if I can. Look—ah! no; it's too dark for you to see me. But I am a white-haired old man, the last person in the world you need be afraid of. You would not tremble and draw away like that, if you could know how far I am from wishing you anything but good.”
She spoke. “Then release my arm.”
Her tone was haughty and indignant. She enunciated each syllable with frigid preciseness. From the correctness of her accent and the cultivated quality of her voice, I learned that I had to do with a woman of education and refinement.
“Then release my arm.”
“No,” I said, “I dare not release your arm.”