“Hush, dear Richard,” she said, in a serene and tender voice, “I know it all. Be calm, as I am. Bring him to me.”
Blind with tears, he tottered down the steps to the carriage, and threw open the door.
“Richard,” said the faint voice from within, “take Antony up at once.”
Antony got out from the carriage, wondering why his protector spoke in such a weak voice, and followed Wentworth in.
“Welcome back, Antony,” said Muriel, with a grave smile. “Go up with Mr. Wentworth.”
She turned her face to the carriage, as the fugitive, cringing low, with his dark, skull-like face hideous with a reverential smile, passed her, dragged hastily up-stairs by Wentworth.
In a moment Bagasse sprang from the carriage, and turning, reached in for Harrington, who crept down presently, supported from behind by the Captain, and before by the fencing-master. The moment he touched the pavement, Muriel flew down the steps, clasped him in her arms, and gazed for an instant, with a pale, bright smile, into his dying face.
The two men gazed at her for a moment, their haggard and weeping faces stilled with wonder at her seraphic smile of calm, and the soft vision of her beauty in the darkness. Then starting from their pause, they lifted Harrington from his feet, bore him up into the library, laid him half reclining on a couch, and as they did so, she came quickly with water and wine, and knelt beside him.
Wentworth entered behind them, drenched and draggled with the rain and spray, with his hair dishevelled, and his face livid and haggard with grief, and went at once to Emily, who lay on a couch in a dead swoon. The two men stood forlornly weeping, Bagasse with his face buried in his hands, the Captain with his head bent on one side, his visage white with dark circles around the eyes, and the tears streaming on his cheeks. Save for their low, hoarse sobs, the lighted room was intensely still.