Safe? Yes, Ilse was safe. She knew how to take care of herself ... unless....
Again the crimson tide invaded her skin to the temples.... A sudden and haunting fear came 250 creeping after it had ebbed once more, leaving her gazing fixedly into space through the tumult of her thoughts. And always in dull, unmeaning repetition the word “safe” throbbed in her ears.
Safe? Safe from what? From the creed they both professed? From their common belief? From the consequences of living up to it?
At the thought, Palla sprang to her feet and stood quivering all over, both hands pressed to her throat, which was quivering too.
Where was Ilse? What had happened? Had she suddenly come face to face with that creed of theirs––that shadowy creed which they believed in, perhaps because it seemed so unreal!––because the ordeal by fire seemed so vague, so far away in that ghostly bourne which is called the future, and which remains always so inconceivably distant to the young––star-distant, remote as inter-stellar dust––aloof as death.
It was three o’clock. There were velvet-dark smears under Palla’s eyes, little colour in her lips. The weight of fatigue lay heavily on her young shoulders; on her mind, too, partly stupefied by the violence of her emotions.
Once she had risen heavily, had gone into the maid’s room and had told her to go to bed, adding that she herself would wait for Miss Westgard.
That, already, was nearly an hour ago, and the gilt hands of the clock were already creeping around the gilded dial toward the half hour.
As it struck on the clear French bell, a key turned in the outside door; then the door closed; and Palla rose trembling from her chair as Ilse entered, her golden hair in lovely disorder, the evening cloak partly flung from her shoulders.
There was a moment’s utter silence. Then Ilse 251 stepped swiftly forward and took Palla in her arms.