Part 11 (2/2)

”Look at me--look well!”

The man bent down and looked steadfastly into the girl's tragic face.

It was coldly inflexible, and wore the faint shadow of a smile--a smile such as the lips of the dead sometimes wear, as though they knew all things, having unriddled life's problem.

”Debora!” he cried. ”Debora! What is it? What hath come to thee?”

She laughed, a little rippling laugh that broke and ended. ”Nay, thou traitor--that I will not tell thee--but go--go!”

The player stood a moment irresolute, then caught her wrists and held them. His face had turned hard and coldly grave as her own. Some look in his eyes frightened her.

”'Tis a coil,” he said, ”and Fate doth work against me. Yet verily 'tis a coil I will unravel. I am not easily worsted, but in the end bend things to my will. An' thou wilt not tell me what stands i' my road, I will discover it for myself. As for the Judas name thou hast called me--it fits me not. Should'st thou desire to tell me so thyself at any time--to take it back--send me but a word. So I go.”

The long, swift steps sounded down the hall; there was the opening and shutting of a door, and afterward silence.

CHAPTER IX

IX

The night wore on and the moonlight faded. The stars shone large and bright; the sound of people pa.s.sing on the street grew less and less.

Now and then a party of belated students or merry-makers came by, singing a round or madrigal. A melancholy night-jar called incessantly over the house-tops. As the clocks tolled one, there was a sound of rapid wheels along the road and a coach stopped before goodman Blossom's.

Young Thornbury leaped from it, and with his heavy knocking roused the man, who came stumbling sleepily down the hallway.

”Oh! pray thee, make haste, Blossom,” called the young fellow; ”keep me not waiting.” Then, as the door flew open, ”My sister!” he said, pus.h.i.+ng by, ”is she still up?”

”Gra'mercy! Thou dost worrit sober folk till they be like to lose their wits! Thy sister should be long abed--an' thou too. Thou art become a pranked-out c.o.xcomb with all thy foppery--a c.o.xcomb an' a devil-may-care roysterer with thy blackened eyes--thy dice-playing an'

thy coming in o' midnight i' coaches!”

Darby strode past, unheeding; at the stairs Debora met him.

”Thou art dressed,” he said, hoa.r.s.ely. ”Well, fetch thy furred cloak; the night turns cold. Lose no moment--but hasten!”

”Where?” she cried. ”Oh! what now hath gone amiss?”

”I will tell thee i' the road; tarry not to question me.”

It was scarcely a moment before the coach rolled away again. Nothing was said till they came to London Bridge. The flickering links flashed by them as they pa.s.sed. A sea-scented wind blew freshly over the river and the tide was rising fast.

”I have no heart for more trouble,” said the girl, tremulously. ”Oh!

tell me, Darby, an' keep me not waiting. Where go'th the coach? What hath happened? Whatever hath happened?”

”Just this,” he said, shortly. ”Nicholas Berwick hath been stabbed by one he differed with at 'The Mermaid.' He is at the point o' death, an' would not die easy till he saw thee.”

”Nick Berwick? Say'th thou so--at the point o' death? Nay, dear heart, it cannot be. I will not believe it--he will not die,--he is too great and strong--'tis not so grievous as that,” cried Deb.

”'Tis worse, we think. He will be gone by daybreak. He may be gone now. See! the horses have turned into Cheapside. We will soon be there.”

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