"Yes, I
will go," she said; "but I must write to him."
"I think you ought to do so," answered Waring, "and if you will give me
the letter I will deliver it myself."
Every vestige of the returning color faded from Cecil's cheek. "You do
not know him: I dare not trust you." He misinterpreted the cause of her
terror. "I promise you that, however angry Major Keene may be, I will
bear it patiently, and never dream of resenting it. He is safe from me
now."
She smiled very sadly, yet not without a dreary pride; she could have
seen Royston pitted against any mortal antagonist, and never would have
feared for _him_. "You scarcely understand me; I was not anxious for his
safety, but for yours."
Mark was too brave and single-hearted to suspect a taunt, even had such
been intended. "Then there is nothing more to be settled," he said,
quietly, "but the time and manner of your departure. I will leave you
now; I shall see you before you go."
Cecil Tresilyan rose and laid her hand on his arm, her beautiful face
fixed in its firm resolve like that of one of those fair Norse Valas,
from whose rigid lips flowed the bode of defeat or victory, when the
Vikings went forth to the Feast of the Ravens.
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