But though dense the fog, it does not hinder them from perceiving, that the expression of that face is one of expectancy; nor her from recognising them as the friends who were to be under the window. With that voice from the Wyeside still echoing in her ears, she sees her deliverers at hand! They have indeed come.
A woman of weak nerves would under the circumstances be excited—possibly cry out. But Soeur Marie is not such; and without uttering a word, even the slightest ejaculation, she stands still, and patiently, waits while a wrench is applied to the rotten bar of iron, soon snapping it from its support, as though it were but a stick of macaroni.
It is Ryecroft who performs this burglarious feat, and into his arms she delivers herself, to be conducted down the ladder; which is done without as yet a word having been exchanged between them.
Only after reaching the ground, and there is some feeling of safety, he whispers to her:—
“Keep up your courage, Mary! Your Jack is waiting for you outside the wall. Here, take my hand—”
“Mary! My Jack! And you—you—” Her voice becomes inaudible, and she totters back against the wall!
“She’s swooning—has fainted!” mutters the Major; which Ryecroft already knows, having stretched out his arms, and caught her as she is sinking to the earth.
“It’s the sudden change into the open air,” he says. “We must carry her, Major. You go ahead with the ladder, I can manage the girl myself.”
While speaking he lifts the unconscious form, and bears it away. No light weight either, but to strength as his, only a feather.
The Major going in advance with the ladder guides him through the mist; and in a few seconds they reach the outer wall, Mahon giving a low whistle as he approachs. It is almost instantly answered by another from the outside, telling them the coast is clear.