Her black figure was outlined against the light interior of the coach as she stood with a hand on either side to support herself, her eyes were very resolute, though her voice fell and broke.
“I met you in the inn,” said Jerome looking up. “And I had seen you before—in a dream—I might have known.”
She stared at him dumbly; the rain on the roof of the coach made a light sound.
“Some one will warn the Prince,” continued Jerome. “I am content that this is in vain.”
She lifted her hand to her breast.
“Take him away,” she said in Gaelic.
She saw the look on his face; she saw his hands clench, look and movement passed and he walked off quietly between the two huge figures into the darkness.
With a stifled cry she sank back onto the seat and wrung her hands.
The bitter air streamed in through the open door and she saw the black heath and the lighter sky in which the moon seemed to swing and dance behind the clouds like a lantern held unsteadily.
She dragged at her hair with a curious aimless gesture and crouched far into the corner, hiding her face in the cushions. From the darkness no sound save the gentle one of the rain and the jingle of harness as one of the horses moved.