elbow, and he drained a bumper to my eyes, while I sat listening to the whistling of the wind.
'Twas a wild night of the late November. You could hear the branches rock before the gale: the cold groanings of the blast among the crazy walls and chimneys, its shriekings in the open park, the sounds that fluttered strangely from the ivy, and, most of all, the sudden comings of the rain and hail as it crashed upon the window-panes. It stirred the fire up and made the flames leap, and contrived, as I bent across the hearth to do this, to restore a detached curl to its right condition on my brow.
"A stormy night and wintry"—I shivered as I spoke—"and that poor lad, that fugitive, hiding in it for his life."
While I uttered this, I could so clearly see the shaking trees and the wind-swept wolds cuddling together in the cold that I think the wildness of the elements was echoed in my voice.
"Madam," says the Captain, turning on me a solemn, weary face that was full of instant sadness, "you and I do ill to be together. Madam, I have my duty to perform, and as that duty is cruelly opposed to your desires and must prejudice your peace, Madam, I ask you how I can possibly perform it if you sit there so friendly in the kindness of your heart? Madam, you forget that when the best is said of me I am but a man, and, maybe, not a very strong one, and that so long as you sit there by the fire to cheer me in my pain, I am in the presence of a divinity whose look it is the law."
