“Perhaps so,” I answered unthinkingly, for the man’s manner rather irritated me. “We English hate the idea of dependence and supervision; our freedom is absolute, in effect as well as in name.”
I had reason before many hours were over to realize the rashness of that speech. But at the moment disgust for the hideous methods of a despotic government were so strong within me that I did not weigh the possible effect of my words, or see the trick which had led me to make the admission.
The Count rose. “I think, if you are rested, we may turn our faces homewards now. We have an hour’s walk, and I wager shall flush some game on our way. I hope, Herr Tyrrell, that you will do me the honour of joining us at dinner. We dine sans cérémonie to-night, and in her state of health my sister will be glad if we all renounce full dress.”
The invitation was, I felt, one which on the score of my personal safety it was madness to accept. But my great desire was to get inside the Monastery, since from without I could do nothing. It was for that I had spent the day with a man I loathed; to accept his hospitality was entirely repugnant to me; but I was fighting against odds to save a human life: I had to avail myself of every advantage I might get, and could not be squeamish. The risk, I knew, was fearful; no greater, though, to me a strong man than her danger to the imprisoned girl. I had my wits about me, my revolver in my pocket; I felt that the path here divided, and I had to choose between that of duty and that of cowardice. The chance I had prayed for had come. At the worst it was but another grave in the wood for a man who had done his duty.
I accepted.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE DISH OF SWEETMEATS
As we drew near the Monastery my worthy host gave me a short sketch of its history. How it had fallen from the high position it occupied in mediæval times to be a Hostel of Mercy for the sick and dying (which, indeed, thought I, in one sense it is still); then how the property fell, by the changes and chances of time, into the hands of the State, from which, for sporting purposes and a love of the picturesque, he was induced to rent it. I had my doubts about a good deal of this plausible story, but accepted the statements for what they were worth.
“Two or three survivors of the Order of St. Tranquillin,” he continued, “still live on the premises. I had not the heart to turn them adrift, and as they confine themselves to a distant wing of the building we see little or nothing of them.”