At the firing and the shouting West had rushed from the room, followed by his fellow Councillors, and now the Governor clapped on his headpiece and called to his men to bring his back-and-breast. His wife hung around his neck, and he bade her good-bye with great tenderness. I looked dully on at that parting. I too was going to battle. Once I had tasted such a farewell, the pain, the passion, the sweetness; but never again—never again.
He went, and the Treasurer, after a few words of comfort to Lady Wyatt, was gone also. Both were merciful, and spoke not to me, but only bowed and turned aside, requiring no answering word or motion of mine. When they were away, and there was no sound in the room save the caged bird’s singing and Lady Wyatt’s low sobs, I begged Rolfe to leave me, telling him that he was needed, as indeed he was, and that I would stay in the window for a while, and then would join him at the palisade. He was loath to go; but he too had loved and lost, and knew that there is nothing to be said, and that it is best to be alone. He went, and only Lady Wyatt and I kept the quiet room with the singing bird and the sunshine on the floor.
I leaned against the window and looked out into the street—which was not crowded now, for the men were all at their several posts—and at the budding trees, and at the smoke of many fires going up from the forest to the sky, from a world of hate and pain and woe to the heaven where she dwelt; and then I turned and went to the table, where had been set bread and meat and wine.
At the sound of my footstep Lady Wyatt uncovered her face. “Is there aught that I can do for you, sir?” she asked timidly.
“I have not broken my fast for many hours, madam,” I answered. “I would eat and drink, that I may not be found wanting in strength. There is a thing that I have yet to do.”
Rising from her chair, she brushed away her tears, and coming to the table with a little house—wifely eagerness, would not let me wait upon myself, but carved and poured for me, and then sat down opposite me and covered her eyes with her hand.
“I think that the Governor is quite safe, madam,” I said. “I do not believe that the Indians will take the palisade. It may even be that, knowing we are prepared, they will not attack at all. Indeed, I think that you may be easy about him.”
She thanked me with a smile. “It is all so strange and dreadful to me, sir,” she said. “At my home in England, it was like a Sunday morning all the year round—all stillness and peace; no terror, no alarm. I fear that I am not yet a good Virginian.”
When I had eaten, and had drunk the wine she gave me, I rose, and asked her if I might not see her safe within the fort before I joined her husband at the palisade. She shook her head, and told me that there were with her faithful servants, and that if the savages broke in upon the town she would have warning in time to flee, the fort being so close at hand. When I thereupon begged her leave to depart, she first curtsied to me, and then, again with tears, came to me and took my hand in hers. “I know that there is naught that I can say.... Your wife loved you, sir, with all her heart.” She drew something from the bosom of her gown. “Would you like this? It is a knot of ribbon that she wore. They found it caught in a bush at the edge of the forest.”
I took the ribbon from her and put it to my lips, then unknotted it and tied it around my arm; and then, wearing my wife’s colours, I went softly out into the street, and turned my face toward the guest house and the man whom I meant to kill.