The two women stole into the parlor.

“Tell me what will be the result o’ his coming here,” entreated Jean.

“The result,” Babbie said firmly, “will be that he shall go away and leave me here.”

Margaret heard Jean open the front door and speak to some person or persons whom she showed, into the parlor.

CHAPTER XLI.

Rintoul and Babbie—­breakdown of the defence of the manse.

“You dare to look me in the face!”

They were Rintoul’s words.  Yet Babbie had only ventured to look up because he was so long in speaking.  His voice was low but harsh, like a wheel on which the brake is pressed sharply.

“It seems to be more than the man is capable of,” he added sourly.

“Do you think,” Babbie exclaimed, taking fare, “that he is afraid of you?”

“So it seems; but I will drag him into the light, wherever he is skulking.”

Lord Rintoul strode to the door, and the brake was off his tongue already.

“Go,” said Babbie coldly, “and shout and stamp through the house; you may succeed in frightening the women, who are the only persons in it.”

“Where is he?”

“He has gone to the Spittal to see you.”

“He knew I was on the hill.”

“He lost me in the darkness, and thought you had run away with me in your trap.”

“Ha!  So he is off to the Spittal to ask me to give you back to him.”

“To compel you,” corrected Babbie.

“Pooh!” said the earl nervously, “that was but mummery on the hill.”

“It was a marriage.”

“With gypsies for witnesses.  Their word would count for less than nothing.  Babbie, I am still in time to save you.”

“I don’t want to be saved.  The marriage had witnesses no court could discredit.”

“What witnesses?”

“Mr. McKenzie and yourself.”

She heard his teeth meet.  When next she looked at him, there were tears in his eyes as well as in her own.  It was perhaps the first time these two had, ever been in close sympathy.  Both were grieving for Rintoul.

“I am so sorry,” Babbie began in a broken voice; then stopped, because they seemed such feeble words.

“If you are sorry,” the earl answered eagerly, “it is not yet too late.  McKenzie and I saw nothing.  Come away with me, Babbie, if only in pity for yourself.”

“Ah, but I don’t pity myself.”

“Because this man has blinded you.”

“No, he has made me see.”

“This mummery on the hill—­”

“Why do you call it so?  I believe God approved of that marriage, as He could never have countenanced yours and mine.”

“God!  I never heard the word on your lips before.”

“I know that.”

“It is his teaching, doubtless?”