"Dear," said a low, thrilling voice, "have you come--at last? Ah! but you are late, I began to fear--" The soft voice faltered and broke off with a little gasp, and, as Barnabas stepped out of the shadows, she shrank away, back and back, to the mossy wall of the barn, and leaned there staring up at him with eyes wide and fearful. Her hood, close drawn, served but to enhance the proud beauty of her face, pale under the moon, and her cloak, caught close in one white hand, fell about her ripe loveliness in subtly revealing folds. Now in her other hand she carried a silver-mounted riding-whip. And because of the wonder of her beauty, Barnabas sighed again, and because of the place wherein they stood, he frowned; yet, when he spoke, his voice was gentle:
"Don't be afraid, madam, he is gone."
"Gone!" she echoed, faintly.
"Yes, we are quite alone; consequently you have no more reason to be afraid."
"Afraid, sir? I thought--why, 'twas you who startled me."
"Ay," nodded Barnabas, "you expected--him!"
"Where is he? When did he go?"
"Some half-hour since."
"Yet he expected me; he knew I should come; why did he go?"
Now hereupon Barnabas lifted a hand to his throat, and loosened his neckcloth.
"Why then," said he slowly, "you have--perhaps--met him hereabouts--before to-night?"
"Sir," she retorted, "you haven't answered me; why did he go so soon?"
"He was--forced to, madam."
"Forced to go,--without seeing me,--without one word! Oh, impossible!"
"I walked with him to the cross-roads, and saw him out of sight."
"But I--I came as soon as I could! Ah! surely he gave you some message--some word for me?"
"None, madam!" said Barnabas evenly, but his hand had clenched itself suddenly on the stick he held.
"But I--don't understand!" she sighed, with a helpless gesture of her white hands, "to hurry away like this, without a word! Oh, why--why did he go?"
"Madam," said Barnabas, "it was because I asked him to."
"You--asked him to?"
"I did."
"But why--why?"
"Because, from what little I know of him, I judged it best."
"Sir," she said, softly, "sir--what do you mean?"
"I mean, that this is such a very lonely place for any woman and--such as he."
Now even as Barnabas uttered the words she advanced upon him with upflung head and eyes aflame with sudden passionate scorn.
"Insolent," she exclaimed. "So it was you--you actually dared to interfere?"
"Madam," said Barnabas, "I did."
Very straight and proud she stood, and motionless save for the pant and tumult of her bosom, fierce-eyed and contemptuous of lip.
"And remained to insult me--with impunity."
"To take you home again," said Barnabas, "therefore pray let us begone."
"Us? Sir, you grow presumptuous."
"As you will," said Barnabas, "only let us go."
"With you?" she exclaimed.
"With me."
"No--not a step, sir; When I choose to go, I go alone."
"But to-night," said Barnabas, gentle of voice but resolute of eye, "to-night--I go with you."
"You!" she cried, "a man I have seen but once, a man who may be anything, a--a thief, a ploughman, a runaway groom for aught I know." Now, watching him beneath disdainful drooping lashes, she saw Barnabas flinch at this, and the curve of her scornful lips grew more bitter.
"And now I'm going--alone. Stand aside, and let me pass."
"No, madam."
"Let me pass, I warn you!"
For a minute they fronted each other, eye to eye, very silent and still, like two antagonists that measure each other's strength; then Barnabas smiled and shook his head. And in that very instant, quick and passionate, she raised her whip and struck him across the cheek. Then, as she stood panting, half fearful of what she had done, Barnabas reached out and took the whip, and snapped it between his hands.
"And now," said he, tossing aside the broken pieces, "pray let us go."
"No."
"Why, then," sighed Barnabas, "I must carry you again."
Once more she shrank away from him, back and back to the crumbling wall, and leaned there. But now because of his passionless strength, she fell a-trembling and, because of his calmly resolute eyes and grimly smiling mouth, fear came upon her, and therefore, because she could not by him, because she knew herself helpless against him, she suddenly covered her face from his eyes, and a great sob burst from her.
Barnabas stopped, and looking at her bowed head and shrinking figure, knew not what to do. And as he stood there within a yard of her, debating within himself, upon the quiet broke a sudden sound--a small, sharp sound, yet full of infinite significance--the snapping of a dry twig among the shadows; a sound that made the ensuing silence but the more profound, a breathless quietude which, as moment after moment dragged by, grew full of deadly omen. And now, even as Barnabas turned to front these menacing shadows, the moon went out.
CHAPTER XX
OF THE PROPHECY OF ONE BILLY BUTTON, A MADMAN
Upon the quiet stole a rustle of leaves, a whisper that came and went, intermittently, that grew louder and louder, and so was gone again; but in place of this was another sound, a musical jingle like the chime of fairy bells, very far, and faint, and sweet. All at once Barnabas knew that his companion's fear of him was gone, swallowed up--forgotten in terror of the unknown. He heard a slow-drawn, quivering sigh, and then, pale in the dimness, her hand came out to him, crept down his arm, and finding his hand, hid itself in his warm clasp; and her hand was marvellous cold, and her fingers stirred and trembled in his.
Came again a rustling in the leaves, but louder now, and drawing nearer and nearer, and ever the fairy chime swelled upon the air. And even as it came Barnabas felt her closer, until her shoulder touched his, until the fragrance of her breath fanned his cheek, until the warmth of her soft body thrilled through