“Yes, I think they will,” she said stiffly and relapsed once more into silence.
He piled high the logs and faggots on the hearth so that the fire blazed up into abundant light and warmth. She could not help noticing what a really fine face he had as it showed so clearly in the red glow when he stooped to blow the bellows. He looked about to see if there was aught else that he could do for her comfort and seemed disappointed to find there was nothing. For Clotilde, suddenly remembering the Puritan weaver who had bound his enemy to the armchair and then sat singing at the loom the whole night through, had decided that his example was a worthy one and had climbed up to the bench again and sat throwing her shuttle and singing her song as though the young officer were a hundred miles away. She seemed not to see him as he tried the back door, examined the barred windows and finally, taking up his cloak, turned to go. She did not even look round, although she knew that he hesitated, and then that he paused with his hand on the latch to speak again.
“I am so sorry, little Mademoiselle,” he said simply.
She made no answer, nor even ceased her singing, but flung the shuttle swiftly as he opened the door and went out into the rising storm. Quick as she was, the sound of her swinging heddle did not come in time to drown the grating noise of the key as it turned in the lock.
For some moments after he was gone she tried to work steadily, then suddenly dropped her shuttle in a tangle of threads, leaned her head against the heavy frame of the loom and burst into bitter tears. She heard as she sat there, the sound of feet tramping past on the creaking snow, a dozen, a score, fifty, a hundred perhaps or many more. The sound came back to her on the gusts of the rising wind. On this wild night the expedition had a good chance of skirting Hopewell unnoticed and accomplishing its errand undisturbed.
She sat there sobbing for some time, first weeping wildly then wearily and in despair. Presently she slipped down from the bench, tried both the doors and the windows and at last, carrying one of the candles, climbed the stairs to see if escape were possible through one of the upper windows. It was as she had feared however, the heavy wooden shutters had been nailed in place when the sleeping rooms had been abandoned, and no effort of hers could force them open. She went down again, opened one of the windows that looked toward the great house and tried to call for help. The roaring wind swept the words from her lips so quickly that she scarce could hear the cry herself. She could not even see the other house, for every light in it had long since been put out. There was no hope that any one there would miss her before morning, for only Jason knew of her not being at home and he, she was well aware, would sleep until midday unless forcibly awakened. She turned back to begin her weaving again, but found herself suddenly too worn out for further labour; instead she crept into the big chair by the fire and sat there, limp and weary, her hands lying idle in her lap.