“We can talk as well in the dark,” said he, hoarsely.
So, in the dark, never seeing his face, yet guessing every look upon it, I told him how the maiden had gone often by boat and gazed up at the great Tower; and how, when she left, she had said to me, “Stay near him”; and how hardly she had torn herself away to return to her father.
He heard me, and said not a word, nor moved a muscle; and, when there was no more to be told, he sat on in the dark, breathing hard, until I supposed he had fallen asleep.
But when, after a while, the early dawn struggled through the casement, it found him still awake, with a look on his face half hope, half bewilderment, and a light in his eyes such as I had seen there only once before—on that day we crossed from Cantire to the Bann with the maiden.
But the sight of day roused him.
“Humphrey, I dare not be seen here,” said he, “there is a hue and cry after me. Where shall I hide?”
That was a question had been troubling me all night. For stay where he was he could not. And, if he fled, was I to lose him thus, the moment I found him?
Almost as he spoke there came a step without, and a loud tap on the outer door, at sound of which Ludar started to his feet, and his hand went by instinct to his belt.
“Hush,” whispered I, “’tis only my master, the printer. Here, follow me,” said I, leading him up the narrow stairs, “here is a room where you should be safe,” and I put him into the chamber that was once the maiden’s. “Presently I will return. Meanwhile give yourself to guessing who once called this little room hers.”
Then I went down drowsily, and admitted my master.