Percy thought he could understand his darling’s feelings—her hopes and aspirations. She fancied, in her goodness of heart, and in her love for him, that he would come forth from the crusade against the pirates with a hero’s crown, and that the world would respect and esteem him as such.
He would not destroy her castle. He promised her that he would do the very best he could—would do all that lay in his power—towards helping the earl and punishing the outlaws.
Then he kissed her once more, and shortly thereafter took his way homeward.
Home! He shuddered when he thought of it. There was something in the memory he held of his father that was sacred—something that imparted to the old stone cottage a faint shadow of homeness, but not another thing—not another memory of his life endeared the place to him, or gave him yearnings for it.
And since he had discovered Cordelia’s love the place seemed less like home than ever before. He felt that it was no place for him. How long could it be before they—the smugglers—would suspect that he was at heart against them? And they would tell his mother. And—what would she do? Oh, he would have given much to know the woman’s real feelings. Was she friendly to Ralph Tryon’s wicked course; or, was she not? He feared that she sustained the man.
However, he would not remain much longer a dweller in the stone cottage. For three months, and little more, he had been free from the promise given to his dying father, and there was nothing to keep him. He had remained thus far because his mother had appeared to expect it, and because he would not leave her entirely alone.
The sun had set when he left the castle, and by the time he had reached the edge of the woods flanking the cove, and within which stood the cottage, it had grown quite duskish. So nearly dark was it, that when he had entered the wood it seemed really like night.
The fancy struck him as he took the first step into the woodland path, that he saw a moving figure, not unlike that of a man, a short distance away on his right hand. His thought for the moment was to stop and speak, but he heard nothing; and as the thing, whatever it was, had disappeared, he kept on.
He had not gone a great way—perhaps half the distance through the wood—when his attention was called to the pattering of feet behind him. He bent his ear and listened, and presently he stopped and turned.
“Ah, Guy! Is it you?”