"Go back into the chaise, my lady."
Barnabas spoke very gently but, as she stared up at him, a movement of his horse brought him into the light of the lanterns and, in that moment, her breath caught, for now she beheld him as she had seen him once before, a wild, desperate figure, bare-headed, torn, and splashed with mud; grim of mouth, and in his eyes a look she had once dreamed of and never since forgotten. And, as she gazed, Barnabas spoke again and motioned with his pistol hand.
"Get back into the chaise, my lady."
"No!" she answered, and, though her face was hidden now, he knew that she was weeping. "I'm going on, now—to Ashleydown, to save Ronald, to redeem the promise I gave our mother; I must, I must, and oh—nothing matters to me—any more, so let me go!"
"My lady," said Barnabas, in the same weary tone, "you must get back into the chaise."
"And let Ronald die—and such a death! Never! oh never!"
Barnabas sighed, slipped the pistol into his pocket and dismounted, but, being upon his feet, staggered; then, or ever she knew, he had caught her in his arms, being minded to bear her to the chaise. But in that moment, he looked down and so stood there, bound by the spell of her beauty, forgetful of all else in the world, for the light of the lanterns was all about them, and Cleone's eyes were looking up into his.
"Barnabas," she whispered, "Barnabas, don't let me go!—save me from—that!"
"Ah, Cleone," he murmured, "oh, my lady, do you doubt me still? Can you think that I should fail you?
"Oh, my dear, my dear—I've found a way, and mine is a better way than yours. Be comforted then and trust me, Cleone."