Kretz opened the door at Campe’s summons. The entire household seemed gathered in the lower hall about the door.
“The Fräulein Hohenlo,” and the grim German motioned toward that lady, “would go down to you. But I would not let her.”
“You are not hurt?” asked a voice, and the golden-haired girl came forward toward young Campe. Her voice was low and trembling, and she moved unsteadily.
“Take care!” cried Ashton-Kirk, sharply. He was not a moment too soon in the warning, for Campe had barely time to leap forward and catch the fainting girl in his arms.
Miss Hohenlo, white, and with a deadened look in her eyes stood looking at Ashton-Kirk.
“He was not injured?” she asked.
“Who?” said he.
“Alva.” Then, quietly, for she seemed to understand that all was over, “He is my husband.”
“No,” replied Ashton-Kirk. “He is safe enough.” Then looking at the woman with narrowing eyes, he continued: “He has just about reached the river bank. Will you join him there?”
Dumbly she went down the hall, her hands seeming to grope the way.