When at last he heard a footfall he realized dimly that this was not what he had expected; it was not from the woods, but from within the hut.
Slowly the door opened, and Eleanor stood looking into his face. Her eyes, though bewildered, were calm and recognizing, while her whole expression seemed indicative of consciousness regained. The somnambulism and delirium, not unnatural to one in her condition, had left her very feeble in body but mentally aroused. As Vytal realized this, the demands of the moment became paramount to him, his own terrible lethargy being broken to meet her needs.
“Mistress Dare,” he said, calmly, “I pray you rest here longer. I have sent for aid.”
For a moment she made no response, but stood looking about her at the room’s interior. The torchlight fell across a sheet of paper on the table. First a single written sentence met her eye:
“Comparisons are odious.”
She shivered and would have turned away, but there was more writing, which seemed to speak to her, though she was not sensible of reading the lines, even to herself:
“Who ever lov’d that lov’d not at first sight?”
She looked from the table out into the darkness, and then at Vytal. “Oh, sir, tell me how came I hither—thus—at night!” She clasped his cloak tightly about her, leaning against the door-post for support.
“You have been stricken, madam, with a fever. I pray you rest.”
At this a new apprehension came into her eyes. “Oh, John Vytal, have I spoken in feverish way? Tell me, tell me—”