"Are you afraid, my Diana?"
"Nothing could ever frighten me--here!" she whispered. And then the
place suddenly reechoed with a loud whinnying.
"My horse--I had forgotten him!" said I. And then, as she stirred
sighfully, I stooped and kissed her, ere, loosing her, I rose. "I'll
go and make him comfortable for the night."
"And I will make you a bed, Peregrine."
"It will be like old times," said I.
"Yes--though we didn't--kiss each other--then, Peregrine," said she,
looking at me with a glory in her eyes. "Ah, no--not again--look at
the candle, it will be out in a minute or two and I haven't
another--so hurry, dear."
Forthwith I descended into the dimness below and finding the horse,
loosed off saddle and bridle; this done, I closed the doors and was
making them as secure as might be when I heard her calling:
"Be quick, Perry, the candle is going out!"
So I climbed up the ladder and, drawing it after me, closed the
trap--and as I did so, the light flickered and vanished; but, guided
by her voice, I stumbled through the dark and, finding the hay-pile,
lay down. And then, all at once, I began to tremble, for there rushed
upon me the conviction that, lying thus beside me so near I might have
touched her, yet hidden thus in the kindly dark, she was nerving
herself to the confession of that which must be pain to speak and
agony to hear; thus, tense and expectant, I stared upon the gloom,
waiting--waiting for her voice and resolved that I would be merciful
in my judgment of her.
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