“Bellario had no thought that was not virtue’s,” she answered faintly; and he took that fainter tone for a yielding will.
“She would not have left Philaster if he had been alone in the wilderness, miserable for want of her love.”
Her white lips moved dumbly, her eyelids sank, and her head fell back upon his shoulder, as he started up from his knees to support her sinking figure. She was in his arms, unconscious—the image of death.
He kissed her on the brow.
“My soul, I will owe nothing to thy helplessness,” he whispered. “Thy free will shall decide whether I live or die.”
Another sound had mingled with the rushing waters as her senses left her—the sound of knocking at a distant door. It grew louder and louder momently, indicating a passionate impatience in those who knocked. The sound came from the principal door, and there was a long corridor between that door and Fareham’s room.
He stood listening, undecided; and then he laid the unconscious form gently on the thick Persian carpet—knowing that for recovery the fainting girl could not lie too low. He cast one agitated glance at the white face looking up at the ceiling, and then went quickly to the hall.
As he came near, the knocking began again, with greater vehemence, and a voice, which he knew for Sir John’s, called—
“Open the door, in the King’s name, or we will break it open!”
There was a pause; those without evidently waiting for the result of that last and loudest summons.