Sir John stood arrested.
“Delia,” whispered the dying man again.
Sir John stared in his direction; his high flush faded, he started a little.
“Of course—her brother,” he murmured. For a moment he stood still, gazing at the dark outline now still upon the floor.
“I love you utterly,” the words came again as distinctly in his ear as if she breathed them, “one creed—one King—one cause—”
He roused himself with a reckless laugh; caught up the papers, his hat and gloves and flinging open the window, stepped out into the street.
CHAPTER XVII
THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH
Delia Featherstonehaugh came home through the quiet dark streets by the river with a heart so elate that she heeded nothing of the lateness of the hour, the bitter little wind that whistled through the houses or the slow falling snow.
A clock striking nine told her that she had lingered in the Abbey longer than she thought, but what did that matter to-night? Perseus would forgive her when she told him.
She smiled up at the bleak sky and quickened her pace.