Evidently she was quite
unconscious of my presence.
Whilst I was turning over in my mind the possibility of beating a silent
retreat, she gave a low groan, so full of unquenchable pain that my
blood fairly ran cold. Then rising to her feet, she leaned far out into
the chill night air, stretching her white arms up towards the stars with
a passionate action of entreaty.
"Oh, my Beloved! Shall I ever pray in vain? Is there no mercy?" she
cried, and the sound of her voice was like the wind moaning through
rocky caverns. "My heart is breaking! My strength is almost at an end!
How much longer must I suffer this unspeakable misery?"
Clearly this sort of thing was not intended for strangers. I stopped my
ears and shrank as closely as I could into the shadow of the wall. But I
could not take my eyes off the girl for a moment. Such an exhibition of
wild passion I have never witnessed before or since. As a dramatic
effort it was superb; but all the time I was distinctly conscious of the
absurd figure I should cut if any third person came on the scene. Also
certain warning twinges in my left shoulder reminded me that I was not
in the habit of standing by open windows on bleak autumn nights. Why
Miss Latouche did not catch her death of cold I cannot imagine; for I
could see the wind disordering her dark masses of hair and blowing back
the Indian scarf from her bare shoulders.
Pages:
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152