“Do we set out to-morrow?” he asked in a whisper. “Yes, there is no obstacle between here and Oxford. I was up so late last night, and that, with this long, dragging journey to-day, has tired me. All I wished to know was the hour for to-morrow.”
“But you will have supper with me?”
“No. I can eat nothing. I am too tired.”
“Now, that’s strange. I’m as hungry as the Tweed at flood time. Let me persuade you.”
“Thank you, but I would rest. Good-night.”
In all his life he never forgot that picture of the girl at the stair-head looking down upon him. There was a pathetic droop in her attitude which was usually so firm and erect, as if the gloom of this fortress-inn oppressed her. Childlike and forlorn she seemed, and a great wave of pity surged up in his heart for her, while his arms thrilled with a yearning to enclasp and comfort her.
“Good-night!” he cried, impulsively thrusting forth his hand to her. She did not appear to notice the extended hand, and he almost imagined she shrank from it. As she went away he had one more lingering look from her, over her shoulder. A smile, sad and weary, but inexpressibly sweet, lingered on her lips.
“Good-night,” she whispered.