“You are right!” he said, gloomily. “You keep me to the work. I do not hate him as you do—but he is an enemy, and I will kill him. Why do I yield to you, and obey you thus? What makes me love you, I wonder!”
Suddenly a second gun roared from beyond Buckland.
“We will talk of that afterward,” said the woman, with flushed cheeks; “think of one thing only now—that he is yonder.”
“Good!” said Darke, “and I hope that in an hour one of us will be dead, I care not which—come, madam—but you must not expose yourself!”
“What am I!”
“All I have left!” he said.
And with a gloomy look he rushed from the house, followed by the gray woman.