“Mary,” he said sharply, “have you told any one of this?”
“Never a soul have I spoken one word to, as God above made me,” she answered. “’Twas likely I’d tell any one, and you in it; why should you think so bad of me, Rhys? I’d never mistrust you like that. An’ for my own sake——”
He interrupted her with another kiss.
“Don’t be angry, my dear, I don’t distrust you at all. And I love you truly, Mary, indeed I do.”
“Well then, if you do, you’ll promise not to go along with Evans an’ the rest, won’t you?” she coaxed, putting her arms round his neck. “Promise, promise.”
“I can’t, Mary, I can’t, so there’s an end of it.”
“Very well,” she said in a trembling voice, “then good-bye, for I’d best be going.”
She took up a corner of her cloak, and pressed it to her eyes; there was something infinitely pathetic in the gesture. It was an acceptance of so much—more even than lay in that one interview.
“Dear, don’t you be afraid,” said Rhys, “there’s not the smallest chance of any of us being caught. We have it spread all over the country, that there’s to be a fine to-do that night at the gate by the river, and every constable will be down there and out of our way.”
“But the soldiers,” said the girl; “they say they’re hanging about everywhere. They’ll be pouncing out upon you—mark my words—wi’ their swords an’ dreadful things, and, like as not, you’ll be killed. Oh, Rhys! Rhys!”