There was only one person who
would do that. By this time, the mist being blown away, the light of
the moon began to make a growing clearness. She lifted her hand and
delicately held aside a few twigs that she might look out.
She had been quite right in deciding not to move. Nigel Anstruthers
had come back, and after his pause turned, and avoiding the brick path,
stole over the grass to the cottage door. His going had merely been an
inspiration to trap her, and the wood and matches had been intended to
make a beacon light for him. That was like him, as well. His horse he
had left down the road.
But the relief of his absence had been good for her, and she was able
to check the shuddering fit which threatened her for a moment. The next,
her ears awoke to a new sound. Something was stumbling heavily about the
patch of garden--some animal. A cropping of grass, a snorting breath,
and more stumbling hoofs, and she knew that Childe Harold had managed
to loosen his bridle and limp out of the shed. The mere sense of his
nearness seemed a sort of protection.
He had limped and stumbled to the front part of the garden before Nigel
heard him. When he did hear, he came out of the house in the humour of
a man the inflaming of whose mood has been cumulative; Childe Harold's
temper also was not to be trifled with.
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