ike the tolling
of a bell. "You have an hour free to do your work." An hour, only an
hour! How long had they been there already? Time and all else alike
seemed blurred. All her will must be concentrated upon one thing--to
make Vardri leave her as quickly as possible. Yet she dare not show a
sign of haste or emotion lest he should suspect something amiss and
refuse to go.

"Dear, it is a wonderful plan this, of yours," Vardri was saying. "But
how can I leave you here alone with these devils? It makes me cold to
think of it."

"You'll leave me because I shall be safer alone. You _must_ see that,
_mon ami_." She clung to him, putting up her face towards his. Every
art of womanhood must be used to weave a spell to send him from her and
to save him. "Will you not do as I ask you?"

"I'll do anything in the world for you," the boy broke out eagerly;
"I'd have my hand cut off to save you a minute's pain."

"I know, _mon ami_. And this is such a little thing, and so much
depends upon its being done quickly."

What was that? A step on the ladder? She could not control a violent
start. No, it was only a creaking rung, a stamp from one of the mules.

"But you haven't broken your promise to me. You swear to come away
with me soon?"

"To-morrow if you will. Once the letters are burnt we are almost safe.
Only one day more. It doesn't make any difference."

"It does to me, _mon petit_. Every moment, every hour without you is
time wasted."

"But you'll go, dear, before Sobrenski sees us together?"

"My sweet, if it is for your good, of course I will go. You're right
about the letters; I ought to have known it wasn't safe to keep them.
As you say, they've got no circumstantial evidence if those are
destroyed, and it only means a few more hours' delay in our getting
off. I'll go, darling. I'll get down the hills in no time. It's the
best horse of the lot, that one outside. But before I go give me
yourself for a few minutes."

Arithelli let him lead her unresisting towards the corner of the hut,
and lay her gently back upon a truss of hay that he had covered with a
cloak. She had not the strength to deny him their last few minutes
together. Every fibre in her own nature, the lover, the mother, the
child, were all crying out for him. How gentle he had been, how he had
always cared for her. No one had ever touched her like this before,
spoken to her in this caressing voice. Emile had been kind in