He dropped her hands and turned abruptly, going back to the doorway,
looking out into the darkness. "It is very late. We must start early.
Go and lie down," he said gently, but it was an order in spite of the
gentleness of his voice.
She shrank back trembling, with piteous, stricken face and eyes filled
with a great despair. She knew him and she knew it was the end. Nothing
would break his resolution. She looked at him with quivering lips
through a mist of tears, looked at him with a desperate fixedness that
sought to memorise indelibly his beloved image in her heart. The dear
head so proudly poised on the broad shoulders, the long strong limbs,
the slender, graceful body. He was all good to look upon. A man of men.
Monseigneur! Monseigneur! Mon maitre et seigneur. No! It would
never be that any more. A rush of tears blinded her and she stepped
back uncertainly and stumbled against the little writing-table. She
caught at it behind her to steady herself, and her fingers touched the
revolver he had laid down. The contact of the cold metal sent a chill
that seemed to strike her heart. She stood rigid, with startled eyes
fixed on the motionless figure in the doorway--one hand gripping the
weapon tightly and the other clutching the silken wrap across her
breast. Her mind raced forward feverishly, there were only a few hours
left before the morning, before the bitter moment when she must leave
behind her for ever the surroundings that had become so dear, that had
been her home as the old castle in England had never been. She thought
of the long journey northward, the agonised protraction of her misery
riding beside him, the nightly camps when she would lie alone in the
little travelling tent, and then the final parting at the wayside
station, when she would have to watch him wheel at the head of his men
and ride out of her life, and she would strain her eyes through the
dust and sand to catch the last glimpse of the upright figure on the
spirited black horse. It would be The Hawk, she thought suddenly. He
had ridden Shaitan to-day, and he always used one or other of the two
for long journeys. It was The Hawk he had ridden the day she had made
her bid for freedom and who had carried the double burden on the return
journey when she had found her happiness. The contrast between that
ride, when she had lain content in the curve of his strong arm, and the
ride that she would take the next day was poignant. She closed her
teeth on her trembling lip, her fingers tightened on the stock of the
revolver, and a wild light came into her sad eyes. She could never go
through with it. To what end would be the hideous torture? What was
life without him?--Nothing and less than nothing. She could never give
herself to another man. She was necessary to no one. Aubrey had no real
need of her; his selfishness wrapped him around with a complacency that
abundantly satisfied him. One day, for the sake of the family he would
marry--perhaps was already married if he had been able to find a woman
in America who would accept his egoism along with his old name and
possessions. Her life was her own to deal with. Nobody would be injured
by its termination. Aubrey, indeed, would benefit considerably. And
he----? His figure was blurred through the tears that filled her eyes.