“Don’t what?” she asked in amazement.
“Don’t cry—so sadly. I can’t—bear it.” He was certainly speaking, in a drowsy voice like one newly awakened from a long sleep. Eveleen gave a cry.
“Ambrose, can you hear me? Are y’awake?”
“Gently—hush, pray. I was afraid—of something. It must have been—this.”
“Is it afraid you were? Will you tell me have you been in your right senses all this while, when I thought you could hear nothing?”
“I don’t think so,” doubtfully, but the voice was stronger. “There have been times—— Sometimes I think I must have heard—— Perhaps I might have waked—— But I heard Carthew say—the one chance for you—— Something on my mouth—sort of padlock——”
“Then why in the world wouldn’t you break it? D’ye think I’d mind what happened me if I’d had the chance of hearing you speak? Ambrose, I’d like to shake you!”
“Pray do—but for Heaven’s sake don’t speak so loud. Not unless we are out of the wood by this time. Are we? Surely not; or why were you crying in that—that lamentable way?”
The familiar dry tone brought Eveleen to her senses. She sat back and looked at him in dismay.
“Indeed, and if you did keep silence because you were afraid of my foolishness I wouldn’t wonder. I deserve it. To think of my calling out that way! But Bearer’s outside to warn us if anybody comes near, and every one’s too busy to care about us just now.”