The Voices of the Night
"But, sir," she insisted, "I must, must thank you. You—you cannot know what service you have done me! I—"
"Faith, madam, and I'd do the double of it in the twinkling of an eye if ye would do me the honor of asking me. 'Tis only to ask me, to tell me in what manner I may serve ye—and, I promise ye, 'twill be done!"
His offer was not made lightly, but in all earnestness; his tone was weighty with a meaning that brought home to the woman how greatly she stood in need of one who could do that which the Irishman boasted his ability to accomplish. She stepped back a pace, a flutter of hope in her eyes, a tremor shaking her. For a passing instant she even contemplated taking advantage of his offer. Perhaps she had a glorious glimpse of a vista of unharassed days stretching before her—of peace and quiet, and the liberty to live out her own life as she willed.
He bulked so big, so masterful, this Irishman who seemed to mean every word that he uttered; his bearing was so assured, his control of himself, as well as of others, so indisputable, that it seemed feasible for her to confide in him, to trust in him to rid her of the abiding horror of her days.
His silent sympathy, so evident, tempted her mightily; and yet she paused to think—when, all at once, hope was crushed, blotted out, buried in the depths of her heart.
The man was an utter stranger to her. She did not even know his name; what right had she to give into/his hands the weapon which von Wever held threateningly over her poor, distraught head—to confide in this stranger, when she dared not even breathe her secret to Senet, who, she knew, would give his life for her?
"No," she gasped, stepped back from him, as though the man personified the most alluring temptation of which her
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