“What is it?” she asked, running to him.

She grasped his arm and turned white and began to tremble, not knowing what she feared.  There was something in his look, and something in her own heart, which told her that this was no boyish whim or fancy, such as she was often called to comfort and beguile for him.  She could not see his face distinctly enough to gather anything from looking at him; they were standing beyond the broad band of light streaming from the open door.  But there was no need for sight; he poured out the story almost in a breath, ending with Paul’s message to her.  And she understood more than he had said, far more than he could ever say or understand, before the words had fairly left his lips.  The divination of a woman’s love—­that marvellous white light—­flashed the whole truth, and she uttered a smothered cry as she saw it.  So crying out, she shrank away from him, and threw off his hand and struck at him fiercely, like some soft little wild thing suddenly hurt.

“How could you?  Why did you tell him?” she cried.  “I hate you.  I’ll hate you for this as long as I live.  You have sent him to his death—­you meddler, you simpleton!  And you don’t even know what you have done.  You have sent him to his death, I tell you!  Yes, that’s what you have done, and I will never forgive you while I breathe.  He has gone to warn the attorney-general, and he will be killed, too.  You heard what uncle said about the danger.  What are the robbers or the country to me—­beside him?  What do I care about what happens to the attorney-general?  I wouldn’t care if every other man in the world was lying dead, this minute, if I could know that he was safe.  Oh!  Oh!  And you knew that he and the attorney-general were friends.  You knew he would go to help him.  And yet you told him—­and he is gone—­”

She broke into a helpless passion of weeping so pitiful that the boy could do nothing but go to her and take her in his arms.  She did not resist; her anger was instantly melted in grief.  Her arms went round his neck, and she sobbingly implored his pardon.

“Forgive me—­forgive me.  I didn’t know—­I don’t know what I am saying.  Oh! my heart is breaking, David!  Help me—­help me to think!  We must do something—­we mustn’t stand here crying like this.  Think!  Think!  Help me to think what we can do.”

She pushed him away and stood pressing her trembling hands hard against her temples, trying desperately to clear her thoughts.  The thought of calling on any one in the house did not cross her mind.  There was nothing to expect from the judge; he had fallen asleep in his chair at the table.  William Pressley would not believe there was any danger.  He never believed in any trouble or agitation.  It would only annoy him.  Indeed, she scarcely thought of him at all.  She caught the boy’s arm wildly, with her tears suddenly dried.

“Why don’t you say something—­do something!” she cried bitterly, “You are no better than, a girl yourself.”