“Perseus,” she echoed vaguely. “Do you think it might be Perseus?”
She turned and crept along the wall; falling to her knees, she put her hands out through the dark, feeling blindly for what she knew was there.
“Andrew, Andrew,” she said crazily—“Ah!” She drew back, for she had touched something—something soft—velvet—a velvet sleeve—she pressed her face against the wall, her hands over it, and her fallen hair, and when Jerome reëntered with a lantern she did not look up.
He crossed at once to the window, holding the light; it revealed her crouching away with hidden face and close beside her Sir Perseus, full on his back, his hands clutched in his disordered clothes, as if his last act had been the defense of something he had hidden in his breast. “Now here is an end of thy work,” said Jerome quietly.
He set the lantern on the window-seat and sinking on his knees, lifted Sir Perseus someway from the floor. “Delia—bring me the wine,” he said. “I think he still breathes—”
She slowly turned a wild face.
“So—it is Perseus—” she said, staring.
“Bring the wine—” said Jerome Caryl.
Mechanically and heavily, she obeyed him; poured it out and handed it. “So it is Perseus,” she repeated.
“I think we are betrayed,” said Jerome Caryl evenly. “Now, who was it?” He laid his hand over the heart of the wounded man; then forced some wine between his lips.