In reality, then as now, his
beacon-light was love of self.
Seeing her so frail and trusting, trembling in her anxious
impatience to hear the news of her lord which he had promised
her, Sir Richard may have felt some pang of pity. But, like my
lord, he was of those whose love of self suffers the rivalry of
no weak emotion.
"Your news, Sir Richard," she besought him, her dove-like glance
upon his florid face--less florid now than was its wont.
He leaned against the table, his back to the window. "Why, it is
briefly this," said he. "My lord . . ." And then he checked, and
fell into a listening attitude.
"What was that? Did you hear anything, my lady?"
"No. What is it?" Her face betrayed alarm, her anxiety mounting
under so much mystery.
"Sh! Stay you here," he enjoined. "If we are spied upon . . ." He
left the sentence there. Already he was moving quickly,
stealthily, towards the door. He paused before opening it. "Stay
where you are, my lady," he enjoined again, so gravely that she
could have no thought of disobeying him. "I will return at once."
He stepped out, closed the door, and crossed to the stairs. There
he stopped. From his pouch he had drawn a fine length of
whipcord, attached at one end to a tiny bodkin of needle
sharpness.
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