"One will assuredly find misery!" said I, and, sighing, rose, and taking my hammer from its place above my bookshelf, set to work upon my brackets, driving them deep into the heavy framework of the door. All at once I stopped, with my hammer poised, and, for no reason in the world, looked back at Charmian, over my shoulder; looked to find her watching me with eyes that were (if it could well be) puzzled, wistful, shy, and glad at one and the same time; eyes that veiled themselves swiftly before my look, yet that shot one last glance, between their lashes, in which were only joy and laughter.
"Yes?" said I, answering the look. But she only stooped her head and went on sewing; yet the color was bright in her cheeks.
And, having driven in the four brackets, or staples, and closed the door, I took up the bars and showed her how they were to lie crosswise across the door, resting in the brackets.
"We shall be safe now, Peter," said she; "those bars would resist—an elephant."
"I think they would," I nodded; "but there is yet something more." Going to my shelf of books I took thence the silver-mounted pistol she had brought with her, and balanced it in my hand. "To-morrow I will take this to Cranbrook, and buy bullets to fit it."
"Why, there are bullets there—in one of the old shoes, Peter."
"They are too large; this is an unusually small calibre, and yet it would be deadly enough at close range. I will load it for you, Charmian, and give it into your keeping, in case you should ever—grow afraid again, when I am not by; this is a lonely place—for a woman—at all times."
"Yes, Peter." She was busily employed upon a piece of embroidery, and began to sing softly to herself again as she worked,—that old song which worthy Mr. Pepys mentions having heard from the lips of mischievous-eyed Nell Gwynn:
"In Scarlet town, where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin',
Made every youth cry Well-a-way!
Her name was Barbara Allen."
"Are you so happy, Charmian?"