She clambered down from her higher perch as she spoke, leaning to lay her hand on his shoulder. He felt the tremor of her body, the dread anxiety of her low-spoken word.
"He'll be ready for the wedding tomorrow, Miss Sprague, if you need him so soon," Gabriel assured her.
"I pray that day will never come!" she said, with such feeling that caution was forgotten. "But I would not have him dead, of all things dead at your hands, Don Gabriel," she added softly, her hand still on his shoulder, her breath on his cheek.
Henderson had found her unshod foot; he was replacing the slipper with such haste that impeded his work, anxious for her to come down and hurry back to her duenna's side. For his own road was calling to him; the moon marked its way over the hill among the greasewood and the sage.
"Now go," he said, having fastened the buckle on its silken strap across her vaulted instep. "Run for it, Miss Sprague!"
She came down lightly, her hand in his, her weight thrown on his shoulder, and stood so a moment, as if she had climbed to give him some sweet confidence unseen among the boughs.
"Avoid the man called Fernando—the one who found your shoe," he whispered, his breath short with something that was not fatigue from the fastening of her shoe.
"I know a way," she panted. "I shall be safe now."
It seemed as if shortness of breath were a contagion that had laid hold of both of them under the gray solemn roble that moonlit night. Both of them knew well enough that they had no moments to gamble away, but she lingered. Her hand was still cold in the chill of her past fright.
"Have you heard from the north?" she asked eagerly, whispering close to his ear.