Minute after minute throbbed in silence, timed by the loud rhythm of the roaring wheels. He did not dare lift his head to look at her, though her stillness scared him. Awful and grotesque thoughts assailed him. He wondered whether she had survived the blow—and like an assassin he dared not look to see what he had done, but crouched there, overwhelmed with misery such as he never dreamed that a human heart could endure.
A century seemed to have passed before, far ahead, the locomotive whistled warningly for the Ormond station.
He understood what it meant, and clutched his temples, striving to gather courage sufficient to[249] lift his head and face her blazing contempt—or her insensible and inanimate but beautiful young form lying in a merciful faint on the floor of the baggage car.
And at last he lifted his head.
She had risen and was standing by the locked side doors, touching her eye-lashes with her handkerchief.
When he rose, the train was slowing down. Presently the baggage master came in, yawning; the side doors were unbolted and flung back as the car glided along a high, wooden platform.
They were standing side by side now; she did not look at him, but when the car stopped she laid her hand lightly on his arm.
Trembling in every fibre, he drew the little, gloved hand through his arm and aided her to descend.
"Are you unhappy?" he whispered tremulously.
"No.... What are we to do?"