Prescott sat alone by the fire, staring at three or four coals that glowed redly on the hearth, and wondering how he should escape with this girl from Richmond. He had said confidently that he should find a way and he believed he would, but he knew of none.
They came back presently, the girl wrapped to the eyes in a heavy black cloak.
"It is Miss Grayson's," she said with a touch of humour. "She has consented to take my brown one in its place."
"Overshoes?" said Prescott, interrogatively.
Her feet peeped from beneath her dress.
"Two pairs," she replied. "I have on both Charlotte's and my own."
"Gloves?"
She held out her hands enclosed in the thickest mittens.
"You will do," said Prescott; "and now is the time for us to go."
He turned his back while these two women, tried by so many dangers, wished each other farewell. There were no tears, no vehement protestations; just a silent, clinging embrace, a few words spoken low, and then the parting. Prescott's own eyes were moist. There must be unusual qualities in these two women to inspire so deep an attachment, so much capacity for sacrifice.