"Brooke," said Talbot, in a low, thrilling tone. "Is it your heart only, do you think, that is now almost breaking?"
After this there was a deep silence, broken only by their own quick breathing.
Brooke felt a hand in his. He caught it in a convulsive grasp; and the two hands clung to each other, and throbbed with the vehement pulsations of two hearts that now beat with intensest feeling.
"Let me go," wailed Brooke, at last, snatching his hand away. He gasped for breath. He retreated farther into the darkness. Talbot stood motionless and trembling. There was silence again for a long time. It was at last broken by Brooke.
"Come, Talbot," he said, with feverish rapidity and a wretched assumption of carelessness. "Let's engage in conversation. What shall we talk about? The weather? Or the crops? Or shall we talk politics? By-the-bye, can't you sing something? I tell you what—it isn't fair. You make me do all the singing. But I don't mind. You're a good listener, at any rate. If you like I'll sing a hymn."
And he began, singing through his nose:
"Oh, a maiden she lived in the south countrie,
And a werry fine maid, my boy, was she,
For her hair was as red as red can be;
So off we go to Marymashee.
And a jolly young cove fell in love with she,
Says he, 'My lass, will you marry me?'
One foot up and t'other foot down,
And away we travel to London town."
Again there was a sound below. Brooke's song had roused the guard.
Talbot gave a wild start.