Part 34

"Well?"

"There is Nanna, my sister; I cannot go without her."

"She is in no danger," said Constans, with calm indifference. "The boat will carry only two--is that it?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then; Nanna must remain behind."

"It is impossible to leave her; I have promised."

"No; it is her coming that is impossible, and because I say so."

The girl remained silent. Had she yielded to a will stronger than her own? The door seemed to hesitate; then it closed noiselessly.

Esmay crossed over to one of the windows opening on the garden grounds and flung the shutters open. The coolness of the later afternoon breeze fell gratefully upon her hot cheeks; the horizontal, reddish-rays of the declining sun emphasized the warm coloring of her hair and complexion, and brought out again those curious carmine flecks in her eyes of topaz that Constans had noticed once or twice before. An odd combination, but he realized now that he had thought it pretty. The girl divined the unspoken word and drew back a trifle.

Retreat is the first and essential principle of feminine strategy, and in practice it should suggest the ambuscade to even the most thoughtless of masculine minds. But it never does. Constans stepped up a little closer.

"Nanna must go with me," repeated the girl, hurriedly. "You will help us to get out the boat and tell me in what direction Croye lies. We shall find our way, never fear, for I know the stars, and Nanna can paddle all day long as well as a man."

"And what will you do when you get to Croye?" asked Constans, gently. "Must you hear the whole truth about your uncle, Messer Hugolin? It is not that he is unable but unwilling to turn a hand in your behalf. The humblest shelter, the meanest food--I know what you would say. But not even a night's housing in the cattle-byre or a plate of broken victuals is to be had from Messer Hugolin unless one is prepared to pay, and roundly, too. Remember that I, too, am of his blood, and have dwelt in his house."

The girl's eyes grew cloudy and troubled. "There is the town itself," she faltered. "Surely among so many people there must be some chance for a livelihood--there is work---"

"Not of the honest kind and for such as you," he retorted. "Must I make you understand? Look at yourself, then, in the glass behind you." Suddenly he took her hand between both his own. "Who would dare hint at work to those fingers so slimly white? But one may live delicately, even in Croye."

The girl recoiled as though from a blow, and Constans felt the shame of having actually struck one. "But not you," he stammered, and raged inwardly at himself. She forgave him in a look. "But, Esmay," he said, humbly. She smiled to him to go on.

"You are thinking of the world beyond, but indeed you do not know it--its cruelty to the weak, above all to a woman. Here, at least----"

"Here the least of all," she interrupted, but would not look at him to make her meaning clearer.

"Yet you see how I could not let you go alone or even with Nanna," he urged.

"Yes, I understand that. What is it that you wish me to do?"

Constans started. Was he, then, prepared to make himself responsible for this young creature's future? Of course she could not remain longer in a position so dangerous and equivocal. But why should she not be reasonable? It was true that Nanna was quite capable of managing the boat; he had only to assist them to get away and give the word to Ulick that he might follow. Ulick would go to the end of the world to serve her.

A thoroughly sensible solution of the problem, and then in a twinkle Constans forgot that he had ever wanted Esmay to be reasonable, forgot the faith owed to a friend and the vengeance sworn against an enemy, forgot times and seasons and the peril in which they stood, forgot all things save that he was a man and she was a woman, and that he had suddenly come to desire her above all else in life.

"A woman, and some day he would come to know what that meant." Now he knew.

Esmay stood waiting for the answer to her question.

"You cannot go alone," he said, in a half-whisper, "and your sister's protection is useless. You will have to trust yourself to me."

Esmay had turned away her head, but a treacherous mirror intercepted the confession in her eyes and flung it back to him who had compelled its utterance. Now a man may never yet have seen that look on a woman's face, but he need not fear lest he fail to recognize it when at last his time comes. Constans saw, and suddenly the primeval passion of the world seized and shook him. "I want you," he said, and would have taken her--then stopped, confounded and appalled.

Through the open window came the sharp, staccato yelp of a hound at field. Yes; the dogs were out, and already they were at work, ranging in great semicircles, alert with the joy of the chase. There was Blazer, with his tawny muzzle, and behind him Fangs, the great, black bitch, half mastiff and half bloodhound, the saliva dripping from her jaws as she ran. Constans drew a deep breath as he watched them. Already they were nearing the pavilion; in a few seconds at the farthest they would be giving tongue upon the striking of his scent. He must decide quickly then, and he turned to Esmay.

A black suspicion gathered in Constans's mind as he looked upon her mute agony and misinterpreted it.

"What is it?" he asked, with rising anger, but she answered no word. The memory of the ancient betrayal rushed back upon him.