He sank upon his knees beside her and bowed his head upon her lap. "Jacqueline, Jacqueline! I rode away from Richmond, in black anger—"
He told her all, now speaking with a forced and hard deliberation, now with a broken and strangled voice, short words and short sentences—at the last, monosyllables.
When the tale was done, they stayed for a little, motionless. There was yet bright lightning with long peals of thunder, and the rain beat with passion against the panes. Jacqueline moistened her ups, tried to speak, at last found a broken and uncertain voice. "You left him—lying there?"
"The horse broke away—ran on through the wood. It will have been caught ere now, or it will make its way to Greenwood. Is Fairfax Cary at home?"
"He came last night. He was at Fontenoy this morning."
Rand stood up. "It is done, and all the rueing in the world will not make the breath alight again." With a gesture, singular and decided, he walked to the window and again looked out at the rain and lightning. "If I know—if I know Fairfax Cary—Has the horse been captured—and where? It may be known now, and it may not be known for hours." He stood, reviewing chances, and the shaken soul began to settle to its ancient base. At last he turned. "There's danger enough, but the struggle must be made. If you love me still, I'll find the heart to make it; ay, and to succeed!" Coming back to her, he took her in his arms. "You do love me? That isn't dead?"
"I love you, Lewis."
"Then, by God, I'll fight it out! Jacqueline, Jacqueline—"
She presently freed herself. "What are you going to do—what are you going to do now, Lewis?"
"I will tell you what I have done, and where the danger's greatest—"