"We go together," Sylvia said. "If I obtain the ear of his lordship so shall you."
"What must be must be," Van Ryk said. "Now, see, the twilight is at hand. Soon it will be dark. I will but call my wife's chair and send her home, and then escort you to your own house. Monsieur de Belleville will doubtless be awaiting your coming--your decision."
Half an hour later the three stood outside the wall of the Weiss Haus, by the side entrance that led past the stables and through the little copse in which, that morning, Bevill had found Sparmann seated dead.
"Sylvia heard a soft, yet
firm footstep on the path."
Tapping on the door gently as she sought admission to her own house, Sylvia heard a soft, yet firm footstep on the path a moment later. Another instant and the door was opened, and Bevill stood before them.
Then, when they had all exchanged greetings and Sylvia had asked him how the previous night had passed, receiving for answer the information that, after the storm was over, he had been enabled to sleep, Bevill desired to know where they wished to retire to, there to confer on any plans that she and Madame de Valorme might have decided on.
"Let us remain outside," Sylvia replied, "in one of the arbours. The night is warm, and the sun to-day has dried the wet of last night. Come," she said, addressing the others, "to the bosquet on the lawn. There we can talk in comfort."
Upon which they proceeded along the path that ran through the copse--there was no silent figure now on the seat around the great tree, though Bevill could not refrain from casting one glance at the spot where it had been in the morning--and so reached the arbour the girl had spoken of.
One thing Bevill had determined on, and, in so doing, had also impressed on old Karl, and this was that no word should be uttered to Sylvia of all that had occurred in the house overnight. For he knew, or, at least, already understood, that, should she be made cognisant of these occurrences, no power on earth would prevent her from instantly deciding to set out with him from Liége, so as, thereby, to ensure, if possible, what she would believe to be his safety. Yet in doing this she might not be absolutely ensuring his safety, while, undoubtedly, she would be jeopardising her own. And he would not have that. If Sylvia desired to go, she should go with him in her train, but she should not go on his behalf. Never! He had come there to save her, not to force her to imperil herself by saving him. That must never be. While, for the rest, what mattered it to him now whether he stayed here in danger, or, if she desired it, courted additional danger by going with her? In either case he would be by her side unless disaster came; while, if it came, he would still be near to, it might be, shield and protect her, perhaps to save her. He would leave the decision in her hands, would abide by her determination. He was learning to love her--pshaw! was learning! Nay, he did love her. Nothing should drive him from her. As she decided so it should be--short of her deciding to do aught that should part him from her.