I was indeed praying hard, but there was no hope in my heart that my prayer would be answered. He looked again out of the window, and laughed, and nodded at me.
"She has hesitated but for a moment," he said. "They move towards the gate; he opens it for her. She looks back at the house for a moment—see, I kiss my fingers to her, although she does not know it!—now they are passing out. The gate shuts. They are gone."
He left the window, and dropped into a chair, and burst into a shout of laughter. I crouched on the floor at his feet, with my arms bound behind me, and with my head bowed on my breast.
"I know your story, Tinman," he said at last, when his mirth had subsided a little; "Fanshawe told me something of it. You were a Quixote, I believe; you killed a man because he spoke ill of a woman, or would have done her harm. Look at you now!—a broken worn-out thing, with all your bombast and bravado gone; all your threats and your heroics mere words blown away by the wind. And if you were free—what would you not do?—what doughty deeds of heroism—eh? And behold, the excellent Dawkins is on his way to London, with a trusting girl for company; behold also—I shall follow very shortly. Bow your head, Tinman, for you are indeed a ghastly failure!"
After that for a time he busied himself about the room, casting a word at me now and then over his shoulder. I had got to my feet, and was sitting dejectedly enough on a chair, thinking miserably of what I had done; I no longer felt the discomfort of the gag or the ache in my shoulders; I was past physical suffering of any kind. After what seemed a long time, Olivant went across to the door and unlocked it; stood for a moment there, looking back at me contemptuously.
"You'll be safe here for a time, Tinman," he said. "A little later I'll come and release you. I'm sorry for your young friend, shivering in the wood and waiting hopelessly; but some one had to suffer. And when I see that other friend of yours—sweet little Barbara—in London, I'll exonerate you, and explain to her that it wasn't really your fault. Make yourself as comfortable as you can, Tinman, under disagreeable circumstances."
He took the key out of the lock, and transferred it to the outside of the door; then went away, locking me in. It did not seem to matter; I had failed hopelessly, and I did not mind what became of me. I had striven to do so much—had flung myself into this business with the ardour of a youth; but my youth was a thing of the past, and I was only a tired old man, easily beaten in an unequal struggle.
I sat there for a long time, picturing horribly enough to myself all that might be happening to those in whom I was interested. I saw the boy waiting among the trees, and listening for every sound that floated to him—now certain that I was coming with the girl fast along the road to him—now blaming me bitterly because by carelessness or intentionally I had betrayed him. I saw the girl, too, in the hands of the scoundrel with whom she had so willingly set off on a journey that must end in disaster; and I ground my teeth on the gag that had been forced between them, in bitter despairing rage at the man who seemed to hold us all in the hollow of his hand.
Slowly the shame and degradation of the thing seemed to drop into my soul like a subtle poison. In a world that should be fair and bright—a world made for lovers—it was horrible and unnatural to think that such a creature as Murray Olivant should triumph over love and beauty and purity. Poor sorry knight that I was, for ever tilting at such monsters as himself, I had already been worsted once in the battle, and rendered, as it seemed, for ever useless; and now again, when I would be taking up the fight with fresh vigour, I had been flung at the first encounter, and my enemy triumphed. What a poor sorry spectacle I had made of myself, and how little good I had really done!