"It iss the truth," a.s.sented Kammerer, in his turn. "It wa.s.s the lady who ha.s.s saved you. She ha.s.s spoken for peace and not for bloodshed. You owe to her your life."
"My life!" he said, turning toward her. "You--"
"I"ve a.s.sumed command here," interrupted Josephine calmly. "I"ve paroled these gentlemen."
"Indeed!" said Dunwody sarcastically. "That"s very nice, for them!".
She went on unperturbed. "I"m going to set them free. Judge Clayton and Mr. Jones and you others, too, must go on home. You will have to surrender to the courts. These men are going to leave the state. All of you must disperse--at once."
"And you yourself,--" began Dunwody grimly; "what do you plan?"
"I remain. I am a hostage. It will now be known where I am. You will be responsible for me, now. I fancy that will suit Washington as well as to detain Captain Carlisle as my jailer any longer. If I thought I needed him, I would not let him go. We are all of us going to be under parole, don"t you see?"
"Is it your wish that we should give parole in these circ.u.mstances, Dunwody?" Judge Clayton himself smiled rather sardonically.
"I don"t see why not, after all," said Dunwody, at length, slowly.
"I don"t see why that isn"t about as wise as anything we can do.
The law will do the rest of this work, and we must all be ready for it, as she says. Only one thing, gentlemen, before we part. As to this young lady here, I"ll kill the first man, friend or foe, who raises a breath against her. Do I make myself plain? Put down your guns, then. I won"t turn any man away, not even an enemy.
Have you eaten, gentlemen? Are you rested enough to go to-night?"
An hour later clattering hoofs once more resounded along the Tallwoods road.
CHAPTER XIX
THE ENEMY
Leaning against the pillar of the gallery, Dunwody watched them all, old friends, late foes, depart. Josephine St. Auban stood not far away. He turned to her, and her gaze fell upon his face, now haggard and gaunt. He had ridden sixty miles since the previous sun, half the distance wounded as he was; had been without sleep for thirty-six hours, without food for almost as long, and now was suffering with an aggravated wound.
"You are ill," she said to him impulsively. "You"re badly hurt."
"Aren"t you glad to see me suffer?" he asked grimly.
"I am not glad to see any one suffer."
"Well, never mind about me. But now, you, yourself. Didn"t I tell you to go to your room and rest?"
She was pale, the corners of her mouth were drawn, her eyes were duller. Neither had she slept. She also suffered, even now. Yet her courage matched his own. She smiled.
"It makes me crawl, all the way through, to see a woman hurt that way. Why did you try to climb out of that window? You weren"t walking in your sleep."
"I was trying to get away from you. I thought you were coming. I thought I heard you--at the door." She looked him full in the face, searching it for sign of guilt, of confusion. "Was it not enough?"
she added.
The frown on his face only deepened. "That was not true," said he.
"I never came to your door. It was Sally you heard. I"ll confess--I sent her, to get away those--those clothes you saw. I didn"t want--you to see them."
"I believe you!" she said, low, as if she spoke to herself. "Yes, I understand now."
"Why don"t you say I"m lying to you?"
"Because you are not lying. Because you tell me the truth, and I know it. I was mistaken."
"How do you know? Why forgive me? I don"t want you to forgive me.
You don"t understand the madness--"
"What hope could there be in a particular madness such as that?"
He could see her eyes turned on him steadily. He turned away, sighing.
"I am degraded for ever."
"Tell me," she flashed out upon him suddenly; "what did you think then of _me_, there on the boat? How did you dare--"
"I don"t think I had any conclusion--I only wanted you. I just couldn"t think of your going away, that was all. I"d never seen a woman like you, I"ll never hope to see another your equal in all my life. And you sent for me, told me to come, said you needed help.
I didn"t know what you were. But I didn"t care what you were, either. I don"t care now. Your past might be what you liked, you might be what you are not, and it would make no difference to me.
I wanted you. I"ll never in all my life cease to want you. Who you are or what you are is nothing to me."
[Ill.u.s.tration: "I"ll never in all my life cease to want you."]
"But what is the right thing to do now?" he resumed, after a time.
"Parole? Hostage? I don"t need to tell you I"m the prisoner now.
My future, my character, are absolutely in your hands. The fact that I have insulted a woman can be proved. It is with you, what revenge you will take. As a lawyer, I point out to you that the courts are open. You easily can obtain redress there against Warville Dunwody. And your relatives or friends will of course hold me accountable."
"Then you fear me?"
"No. What comes, comes. I am afraid of no one in the world but my own self. I fear only the dread of facing life--of looking about me here, in my own home, and not seeing, not hearing you.
"But you haven"t told me what you wish," he added; raising his eyes at last; "nor what you intend to do. Tell me, when will your lawyers call on me?"
"Never at all," she answered at last.
"What do you mean?" he demanded. "To set me quit so easily? Oh, no."
"Never fear. You shall pay me ransom, and heavily."
"Ransom? Parole? Hostages? How do you mean?"
"What ransom you pay me must be out of yourself, out of your own character. I shall exact it a hundredfold, in shame, in regret, of you. Do you hold any of that ready to pay your debtor?"
He shook his head. "No, I"ll never regret. But you don"t know me, do you? My fortune is adequate."
"So is mine," she rejoined. "I could perhaps buy some of your property, if it were for sale. But I want more than money of you."
"Who are you?" demanded he suddenly, reverting to the old puzzle regarding her.
A sadness came upon her averted face. "Only a bit of flotsam on the human wave. How small we all are, any of us! And there"s so much to be done!"