“I cannot taste of food,” she said, “and you know the reason--you also have heard the dreadful words. That accursed money comes--Oh! I might have guessed it, but who would have thought?--and he is so old and so frail and--and I think he is going to die. Oh! it is very terrible. I was so proud of my name, and the honour of my house, and now----”
Gervase had no words with which to comfort her, and so the three--the two men and the girl--sat here in the thicket, speaking never a word. But for the young man, he could not take his eyes off the sweet, strong face that looked so lovely in its grief--the lips that trembled, and the eyes that were dimmed with unshed tears. Half an hour passed in silence; only the far-off murmur of the river came faintly through the twilight, and the whirr of a startled bird, or the hasty scamper of a rabbit or a rat, broke the stillness round them. As yet there was no appearance of Macpherson. And then Gervase began to wonder whether, after all, Dorothy might not have been right in her hasty surmise, and whether he might not have sought his own safety in flight, and left them to their fate. But he instantly dismissed the suggestion from his mind as ungenerous and unjust.
Then, at that moment, a shot rang out in the evening air, and another, and another. The sound came from the river, and as they stood and listened, they could hear the jinging of bridles and the clank of weapons, for the air was somewhat frosty and very still. They had risen to their feet and stood listening, only Gervase had drawn his sword, and instinctively stepped nearer to where the girl was standing. Soon they heard the sound of hasty footsteps and the crashing of branches, as someone made his way with impetuous haste through the underwood. Then Macpherson appeared bareheaded, with a smoking pistol in his hand.
“There is not a moment to lose,” he cried. “Into the road and make what terms you can. They are regular troops and may not use you ill, but escape you cannot, and I may not tarry here. I have done for one of them, and, I think, another will never hear ‘boots and saddle´ sounded again. ´Tis your only hope.”
“And what,” cried Gervase, “do you purpose doing?”
“Saving my neck if it be possible. I cannot serve you, but would only make your case the worse. It goes against my heart to leave you, but for your sake and my own I can do naught else. Stay,” he continued, “there is one thing more. For that box they would cut your throats, and they must not find it with you. Madam, can you trust me? I am rugged and I am rough, but I think I am honest.”