She leaned her head against the wall.
“Oh, that is nothing—nothing.”
“Nothing!” And she could picture the bronzed grimness of his face. “Tell me, Barbe—the big man, or the little crooked rogue?”
“The big man.”
“Now I know my dog.”
The hardness of the window-stone, and the cramp and stiffness in his muscles, forced him to remember that he had the descent to make, and that it would not do to waste his strength.
“I must go now, Barbe,” he said, “before I get too stiff.”
She seemed to realize suddenly all the peril of that dark descent, and the dear hardihood that had brought him to her.
“John, if you should slip!”
Her tone held him there, loath to leave her when her voice thrilled so.