He wanted hours more. He could have talked the night away. Yet there was something in his very passion to remain with her that forced him to rise, that long training that makes a man skeptical and impatient of the thing he wants most for himself.
She brought a candle and led the way to an inner room.
"Is there anything I can do for him to-night?" Romney asked, pointing to the forward room.
"No, there is a cot there. When he finds himself in darkness, he will feel his way to that. You will hear his fingers on the wall—but do not mind."
She swung open the single window of the little room. The stone-work was barred. She left him, but did not shut the door.
He stood waiting in the centre. There was just a cot with blankets and a table at the head, upon which the candle sat in solitude. He thought of his travel-bags just then, but she was bringing them and he hastened to the door, for they were heavy and the camel-reek was upon them. She left him again for a pitcher of water and a cup, very pleasing and graceful in her services.
"And now is there not something I can do for you?" he said.
"No—unless—" She laughed.
"Yes?"
"Unless you think of me sleeping like a little child, my face turned toward to-morrow—"