The blood surged to Bert's head—he set his teeth. With stealthy tread he crept to the barn, found a ladder—his late vigils about the farm had taught him where most things were kept—and setting it against the low house wall, he lightly ascended to the roof.
The window was slightly open—secured by means of an iron bar with holes in it. It was not wide enough to enable him to see in. The blows continued upon the trap below, showing that the besiegers had not yet forced an entrance. The noise drowned the sound of his voice, and he ventured to call gently: "Millie! Millie!"
There was no answer. He called again, a little louder.
All was silent in the garret; he could not hear the least rustling. The idea that she was not there, after all, but hiding away somewhere in safety, made his heart dance. Suppose she really had run away, and was waiting for him at the cross-roads? It was most unlikely, but it was not impossible; one never could be sure of girls. Meantime, he must ascertain before that bolt gave. Putting in his hand, he lifted the window as high as it would go—high enough to enable him to put his head under it. The loft extended a good way, though only just in the centre, under the pitch of the roof, was it high enough to stand upright in. It was a pitiful sleeping-chamber for a girl.
The little camp bed was smooth and empty. He could not see Millie anywhere. A candle stood upon a deal chest, guttering in the draught, showing the void space and the neatness of the dreary lodging.
She was actually gone, then? He drew a deep breath....
Something had caught his eye—a red, wet mess on the bare boards, close to the trap-door. All round this was a series of smears, and another blotch, almost a pool ... and some big drops, dotted along the floor into the darkness, under the low part of the roof, where the coffins and the fruit were stored.
Bert became a tiger. One wrench of his iron wrists brought the skylight off its hinges, and without noise he swung himself down into the garret. Stooping, he assured himself that the iron bolt of the trap-door would stand a good deal more of such battering as it was now enduring before it gave way. Then he seized the candle, and crept along the trail of the blood-stains.
He soon found her; and at first he thought that she was dead. She was lying prone upon the ground, her head sunk sideways, all dabbled in blood. One arm lay so curiously twisted that he guessed it to be broken. Bending over her, he heard her breathe; and then, raising her as tenderly as he could, found with mingled fury and relief that all the bleeding came from her lacerated shoulders. She had been inhumanly thrashed. Her clothes were literally torn off her back.
With indomitable pride she had crept up here to die alone.