"You poor child!" he murmured.
At that she lifted her head quickly and said:
"The whole night has been so unreal—that strange sound, the fog, our ghost talk, and this danger—" She looked past him in a strange mental relaxation, feeling the inadequacy of words to convey her immeasurable relief.
"It has been hard for you," he said gently. "I thought of you, and wished that I might help you, but I'm a helpless creature here." He smiled.
No one else had come near her or thought of her, she told herself unreasonably; and now she turned upon him the frank, open look of a child.
"You do help me," she said.
Alone in that strange calm, but barely escaped from a grave danger, they looked at each other for a moment through the distorting glass of their common isolation. Suddenly he moved toward her.
"Then may it not be for always?" he whispered. He could gather no other meaning from Medbury's speech at sunset than that he had given up all hope. He himself was free to speak at last. Yet he must have spoken in any case.
She gave a little backward spring, and laid hold of the shrouds with a hand that trembled.
"Not that!" she gasped. "Oh, I didn't mean that!"