Restlessness followed her. She was a virtual Prisoner, free only in name. And the vigilance of the Terrorists obsessed her. She found a day gone, and no plan made. She had come here to think, and consecutive thought was impossible. She went to vespers at the church, and sat huddled in a corner. She suspected every eye that turned on her in frank curiosity. When, during the “Salve Regina,” the fathers, followed by their pupils, went slowly down the aisle, in reverent procession between rows of Pilgrims, she saw in their habits only a grim reminder of the black disguises of the Terrorists.
On the second day she made a desperate resolve, and characteristically put it into execution at once. She sent for the caretaker. When he came, uneasy, for the Loscheks were justly feared in the country side, and even the thing of which he knew gave him small courage, she lost no time in evasion.
“Go,” she said; “and bring here your accomplice—”
“My accomplice, madame! I do not—”
“You heard me,” she said.
He turned, half sullen, half terrified, and paused. “Which do you refer to, madame?”
She had seen only the one. Then there were others. Who could tell how many others?
“The one who drove here.”
So he went, leaving her to desperate reflection. When he returned, it was to usher in the heavy figure of the spy.
“Which of you is in authority?” she demanded.