“Yes; I must go. You have been kind—you are most generous—”
But she went before him to the hall, waited, listened, for one instant; then threw open the outer door and bade him go. The rain dripped heavily from the eaves, and the cool breath of the freshened air was sweet and stimulating. She was immensely relieved to have him out of the house, but he lingered on the veranda, staring helplessly about.
“I shall go home,” he said, but so unsteadily that she looked at him quickly. He carried the cloak flung over his shoulder and in readjusting it dropped it to the floor, and she saw in the light of the door lamps that his arm hung limp at his side and the gray cloth of his sleeve was heavy and dark with blood. With a quick gesture she stooped and picked up the cloak.
“Come! Come! This is all very dreadful—you must go to a physician at once.”
“My man and horse are waiting for me; the injury is nothing.” But she threw the cloak over his shoulders and led the way, across the veranda, and out upon the walk.
“I do not need the doctor—not now. My man will care for me.”
He started through the dark toward the outer wall, as though confused, and she went before him toward the side entrance. He was aware of her quick light step, of the soft rustle of her skirts, of a wish to send her back, which his tongue could not voice; but he knew that it was sweet to follow her leading. At the gate he took his bearings with a new assurance and strength.
“It seems that I always appear to you in some miserable fashion—it is preposterous for me to ask forgiveness. To thank you—”
“Please say nothing at all—but go! Your enemies must not find you here again—you must leave the valley!”
“I have a work to do! But it must not touch your life. Your happiness is too much, too sweet to me.”