It is all a delusion and an old wife's fable. When Cecil rose
the next morning there was not a silver line in her tresses. Outward
signs of the mortal struggle, while it lasted, there were none, for her
clasped hands veiled her face jealously; when she raised it, her cheek
was paler than death and wet with an awful dew, and when she spoke her
voice retained not one cadence of its wonted melody.
"You have prevailed, as the truth always ought to prevail. Now tell me
what to do."
Mark Waring would have drained his heart's blood drop by drop to have
lightened one throb of her agony, but he never thought of flinching from
his purpose.
"There are perils where the only safety lies in flight. You must leave
this before Major Keene returns, and he returns to-morrow."
Perhaps I have failed in making you understand one hereditary
peculiarity of the Tresilyans. When their hand was fairly laid to the
plow they were incapable of looking back. Had Mark come ten hours later,
when Cecil's purpose was absolutely fixed, all his arguments would have
been futile. As it was, once having decided finally on the line she was
to take, it never occurred to her to make farther objections.
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