“What is there to fear?”
He spoke with calmness, but her voice had made him think of a wind blowing sadly in the distant woods at night, plaintive and forlorn. His own heart was heavy in him with deep foreboding, though he would not confess to it before her.
“Is John Falconer in the house?”
“I saw him an hour ago.”
“One friend, please God. Where is Swartz?”
Martin hesitated, and then gave her the truth.
“Escaped—or on the verge of it. He does not trust to promises—fears to be treated as a traitor.”
“Ah! he is right. Martin, I have come by a most evil fear of my own people; their eyes do not look straight into mine. That man, Sir Gregory, is no friend of ours. Oh, I know; we women are quick. I feel a shadow over us.”
He heard her move the bar that closed the door, and the rustling of her dress.
“The shadow is mine,” he said.