Jacintha did as bidden. The lamp, re-kindled, showed her as a little fair-haired woman of subdued demeanor, her face retaining traces of former good looks.
She cast one glance at Barbara, and immediately gave a strange gasp.
"In God's name," she murmured, "who are you?"
"A hard question," returned Barbara, with a touch of bitterness in her voice, "seeing that I myself cannot answer it."
This reply seemed to enhance Jacintha's fear. She stood mutely staring at Barbara, who began to feel something of resentment at the woman's strange manner.
"I will depart if you wish it," she said, turning away with quiet dignity, though her heart sank within her at the thought of passing the night out of doors.
"Oh! no, no. Pardon me, my lady, if I seem rude," replied Jacintha, assuming an humble manner, and stepping forward as if to intercept Barbara's departure. "Do not go. We shall be glad if you will stay. Stay here as long as you will—at least—that is—till—till—"
"Till the Master returns," chimed in Lambro, "and then—well, it's his rule to have no strangers here."
He had apparently plucked up his courage, for he had come forward to the entrance again, where he and Jacintha stood staring curiously, first at Barbara, then at each other.
"You seem to know me," said Barbara, "though I do not think that you can ever have seen me before to-night."