"Nothing could ever frighten me—here!" she whispered. And then the place suddenly reechoed with a loud whinnying.
"My horse—I had forgotten him!" said I. And then, as she stirred sighfully, I stooped and kissed her, ere, loosing her, I rose. "I'll go and make him comfortable for the night."
"And I will make you a bed, Peregrine."
"It will be like old times," said I.
"Yes—though we didn't—kiss each other—then, Peregrine," said she, looking at me with a glory in her eyes. "Ah, no—not again—look at the candle, it will be out in a minute or two and I haven't another—so hurry, dear."
Forthwith I descended into the dimness below and finding the horse, loosed off saddle and bridle; this done, I closed the doors and was making them as secure as might be when I heard her calling:
"Be quick, Perry, the candle is going out!"
So I climbed up the ladder and, drawing it after me, closed the trap—and as I did so, the light flickered and vanished; but, guided by her voice, I stumbled through the dark and, finding the hay-pile, lay down. And then, all at once, I began to tremble, for there rushed upon me the conviction that, lying thus beside me so near I might have touched her, yet hidden thus in the kindly dark, she was nerving herself to the confession of that which must be pain to speak and agony to hear; thus, tense and expectant, I stared upon the gloom, waiting—waiting for her voice and resolved that I would be merciful in my judgment of her.
Thus moment after moment dragged by and I in a very fever of anticipation, waiting—listening—At last she stirred, but instead of the broken, pleading murmur I expected, I heard a long, blissful sigh, a rustle of the hay as she settled herself more cosily, and when she spoke her voice sounded actually slumberous:
"Are you comfortable, Peregrine?"