"I want to speak with you a bit," he nodded to young Carrington.
The lad followed him. Hastings, left alone, gave himself up to thoughts of Elenore. The other side of the rock wall, young Carrington faced Trevanion, and knew that he knew. Every detail of their surroundings stood out in the light of that, with sudden distinctness. The great timbers that walled in the drift, the flickering light of the candles in their caps--all seemed but the setting for Trevanion's eyes. The hand he laid on young Carrington's arm was almost reverential in its touch.
"I've held you in my arms to-day twice," he said, hurriedly. "I don't understand why it's you, but it's all right." He looked at young Carrington as one of Jeanne d'Arc's soldiers might have looked.
"I thought 'twas queer, the way you held the child that time," Trevanion went on. "And you ride just as you did as a youngster. Will he come back now if----" he demanded.
Young Carrington nodded gently. "Yes, and he's a splendid fellow." If the young voice broke for a second, that was all. "He'll help dad to bear it. It was best for me to come. Best, above all, if this was to happen." The voice was steady now. "I'm sorry you know, but it would have been safe with you, anyway."
It was that same confident charm that had conquered Trevanion at the outset.
"You won't tell _him_?" he questioned, jerking his head toward the raise.
Young Carrington's head shook a slow negative.
"Not unless at the very last I turn weak and womanish;" and there was a whimsical touch in the last word.
Then the young figure straightened up with a quick decision.
"And I really think, Trevanion"--young Carrington's voice was light now--"that I shall make a nice, plucky, manly finish."
Trevanion, following back into the raise, would have cut his heart out to save that buoyant young life, but his devotion was the pure fealty of a serf for his sovereign.
They played at bravery after that, each abetting the other.
Young Carrington coaxed Trevanion into telling them mining stories, wheedled Hastings into all kinds of reminiscences of his boyhood, assumed their ultimate escape so confidently that Hastings thought it a genuine hopefulness.
Not so Trevanion. He knew what the spring was that moved young Carrington to play up to a buoyant part. And he helped, with anecdotes of wonderful rescues, of escapes just in the nick of time.