Nataly observed them, thinking of Victor’s mastering subtlety.  She had hoped (having clearly seen the sheep’s eye in the shepherd) that Mr. Barmby would be watchful to act as a block between them; and therefore she had stipulated for his presence on the journey.  She remembered Victor’s rapid look of readiness to consent:—­he reckoned how naturally Mr. Barmby would serve as a foil to any younger man.  Mr. Barmby had tried all along to perform his part:  he had always been thwarted; notably once at Gisors, where by some cunning management he and mademoiselle found themselves in the cell of the prisoner’s Nail-wrought work while Nesta had to take Sowerby’s hand for help at a passage here and there along the narrow outer castle-walls.  And Mr. Barmby, upon occasions, had set that dimple in Nesta’s cheek quivering, though Simeon Fenellan was not at hand, and there was no telling how it was done, beyond the evidence that Victor willed it so.

From the day of the announcement of Lakelands, she had been brought more into contact with his genius of dexterity and foresight than ever previously:  she had bent to the burden of it more; had seen herself and everybody else outstripped—­herself, of course; she did not count in a struggle with him.  But since that red dawn of Lakelands, it was almost as if he had descended to earth from the skies.  She now saw his mortality in the miraculous things he did.  The reason of it was, that through the perceptible various arts and shifts on her level, an opposing spirit had plainer view of his aim, to judge it.  She thought it a mean one.

The power it had to hurry her with the strength of a torrent to an end she dreaded, impressed her physically; so far subduing her mind, in consequence, as to keep the idea of absolute resistance obscure, though her bosom heaved with the breath; but what was her own of a mind hung hovering above him, criticizing; and involuntarily, discomfortingly.  She could have prayed to be led blindly or blindly dashed on:  she could trust him for success; and her critical mind seemed at times a treachery.  Still she was compelled to judge.

When he said to her at night, pressing both her hands:  ’This is the news of the day, my love!  It’s death at last.  We shall soon be thanking heaven for freedom’; her fingers writhed upon his and gripped them in a torture of remorse on his behalf.  A shattering throb of her heart gave her sight of herself as well.  For so it is with the woman who loves in subjection, she may be a critic of the man, she is his accomplice.’

‘You have a letter, Victor?’

‘Confirmation all round:  Fenellan, Themison, and now Skepsey.’

He told her the tale of Skepsey and Jarniman, colouring it, as any interested animated conduit necessarily will.  Neither of them smiled.

The effort to think soberly exhausted and rolled her back on credulity.

It might not be to-day or next week or month:  but so much testimony pointed to a day within the horizon, surely!