“And you?”
“Don’t ask me to tell you; I have not the courage; it was all so terrible, and the truth was too great for me. Promise you will not come.”
“If I promised that,” he said, simply, “I might as well drop and end it.”
“Oh—but—John—”
“Barbe, good-night.” And she felt the tightening of the rope against the bar. “I cannot part with such wild talk from you. Good-night. God hold you in His keeping.”
She heard the rustle of leaves and the dull chafing of the sheet against the stone. Leaning against the wall and listening, her heart seemed to beat but thrice in a minute while she waited to hear whether he were safe or no. The rope slackened, and she heard the faint rustle of leaves go slowly down the tower. Then all was silent, and there was nothing left but the empty night.
Suddenly, as though bending beneath some great weight of humiliation and utter helplessness, she sank down on the bed with her head resting against the wall. A great shudder ran through her, yet no tears came; for all the dreariness of the hour seemed lost in the miserable menace of the past.
XXXI
John Gore made his retreat from Thorn with nothing more threatening in the way of a betrayal than a low, querulous growl from the mastiff chained in the yard. He scaled the gate, and made his way back to the thorn-tree where he had left his heavier clothes and his sword.
Now the sea-captain’s brain might have been a Spanish treasure-ship, and the happenings of the night so many buccaneers by the way they stormed in and put everything to confusion. There were a hundred questions to be asked and answered, and many of them were the worst of riddles. The night sky seemed full of new meanings, new mysteries, new secrets, and Thorn itself a strange dim place where the heart of a man might lose itself in wonder. Yet one truth shone out like a great star above the tower, steady and sure amid so many drifting clouds. He had found the girl with the white face and the dusky hair, and learned that she was no more mad than he was; and for that he gave God thanks.