She lifted her finger warningly as a bell rang, and the well-known voice sounded outside the house, calling to some one to open the door.
“He is here!” cried Hyacinth, distractedly. “For God’s sake, hide me from him! Not for worlds—not for worlds would I meet him!”
“Nay, you have nothing to fear. It is Monsieur de Malfort who has to answer for what he has done.”
“Henri, he will kill you! Alas, you know not what he is in anger! I have seen him, once in Paris, when he thought a man was insolent to me. God! The thunder of his voice, the blackness of his brow! He will kill you! Oh, if you love me—if you ever loved me—come out of his way! He is fatal with his sword!”
“And am I such a tyro at fence, or such a poltroon as to be afraid to meet him? No, Hyacinth, I go with you to Dover, or I stand my ground and face him.”
“You shall not!” sobbed Hyacinth. “I will not have your blood on my head! Come, come—by the garden—by the river!”
She dragged him towards the window; he pretending to resist, as Angela thought, yet letting himself be led as she pleased to lead him. They had but just crossed the yawning gap between the mullions and vanished into the night, when Fareham burst into the room with his sword drawn, and came towards Angela, who stood in shadow, her face half hidden in her close-fitting hood.
“So, madam, I have found you at last,” he said; “and in time to stop your journey, though not to save myself the dishonour of a wanton wife! But it is your paramour I am looking for, not you. Where is that craven hiding?”
He went back to the inhabited part of the house, and returned after a hasty examination of the premises, carrying the lamp which had lighted his search, only to find the same solitary figure in the vast bare room. Angela had moved nearer the window, and had sunk exhausted upon a large carved oak chair, which might be a relic of the monkish occupation. Fareham came to her with the lamp in his hand.
“He has given me a clean pair of heels,” he said; “but I know where to find him. It is but a pleasure postponed. And now, woman, you had best return to the house your folly, or your sin, has disgraced. For to-night, at least, it must needs shelter you. Come!”