How sweet she had been! how grateful, bonnie little Floy! He remembered, as if it were last night, their ride home, and how they had parted at the door betrothed lovers! He could still feel that sweet, dewy kiss on his lips in all its divine bliss, and he stifled a bitter groan as he remembered all that had come and gone since then, parting them so cruelly from each other.
He felt Alva shudder as she clung to his arm, and looking down at her face, saw that it was pale and grave, with somber eyes.
“Alva, you are ill, or frightened!” he cried, anxiously.
“No, no; go on!” she answered, urging him on, and trying to shake off her strange depression.
The spell fell over St. George, too, and icy fingers seemed to clutch at his heart. He muttered, in a strange voice:
“I—I am not a coward, Alva; I do not wish to turn back; but I have a feeling that we are going to confront—something terrible.”
“Yes, yes; but—go on!” she whispered back, with white lips.
They moved slowly, arm in arm, around the winding walk toward the side of the house, as St. George had gone that first night, toward the side door.
Everything was so still they could hear the beating of their own hearts.
“The door stands ajar. Perhaps I had better go in alone. You are nervous, Alva,” he whispered.