MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
was no doubting the earnestness of her plea, and I released the hand, feeling a last slight pressure of the fingers. Her eyes uplifted to mine, a yearning in their depths which seemed to intoxicate, craze me. The next instant she was fairly crushed in my arms, and my lips pressed against hers. It was over almost as quickly, and she had pressed me back from her, sinking into the nearest chair, her hands pressed against her burning cheeks.
"Oh, how could you? Now, now, you must go."
"But you forgive me, Jean? You forgive me?"
"Forgive you! It was more my fault than yours. Why do you make it all so hard for me? Don't you understand I cannot, cannot permit this? You are risking your life here. Go—go at once, for my sake, if you will not for your own."
I do not clearly remember what I did, for I seemed dazed, my brain inoperative, but I know I knelt and kissed her hand, and then backed from the room, my eyes upon her to the last. Outside, in the deserted hall, I came back to reality as though awakened by some shock, every detail of my situation flashing to my brain. I stood still listening—there was no sound from within the room I had just left, but I could hear some one tramping back and forth below. I peered over the balusters, discovering O'Brien nervously pacing from wall to wall, his eyes on the stairs.
"All clear?" I asked softly.
"Bedad, it is now, sor, but the relief will be here in foive minutes."
[ 328 ]
