“Why is he at Thorn?”
“Hiding from the law because of this Plot; hiding from us, a miserable wreck of a man, half starved, almost mad.”
She saw his face grow haggard and stern, the lines deepening about the mouth, his eyes staring fixedly at the fire, as though he were looking upon a thing that revolted him. The instinct in her was one of a strong, pure passion to be of use. He had feared for her courage, perhaps for her magnanimity. Yet it was she who took the torch that evening, and carried it so that the darkness seemed less dark.
“John, my heart, tell me everything.”
She drew him by the hands into the inner room, and shut the world out, save that world at Thorn. He looked down at her, as though wondering at the will in her, and feeling a strength and courage near him that might have the power of turning destiny into providence. She was calm yet infinitely vital, and her face had a radiance that drove scorn and bitterness and malice into the dark. He beheld a transfiguration—love bending toward love, beautiful with the beauty of sacrifice, pity, and desire.
“John, do you fear for me?”
He opened his arms, but paused with a sudden awe of her, and, bowing himself, touched her hands.
“No, not now.”
“Then tell me everything.”
And he told her, sitting in the firelight, with his hands clasped upon his knees.