Was it indeed but that morning that the
boy's eyes with their fierce appeal had looked into his--and he had
given him that stern command to await his coming?
His hand went up to the fastening of the window. He knew Guy.
There was a strain of honour in his nature which nothing could ever
change. He would keep that sort of appointment or die in the
attempt. If he still lived--if that frightful cloudburst had not
overwhelmed him--he was there waiting above the raging torrent.
The rain beat with a deafening rattle upon the roof of the _stoep_.
It was falling perfectly straight now as if a million taps were
running. And another memory flashed upon Burke as he stepped
forth,--the memory of a girl who had clung to him in just such
another downpour and begged him not to leave her. He heard the
accents of her voice, felt again the slender youthfulness of her
frame. He flung his arms wide with an anguished gesture.
Another voice, keen-edged and ruthless, was cutting its way through
his soul, lacerating him, agonizing him. "And they loved each
other. That made all the difference." Ah, God, the bitter
difference that it made!
He went down the steps up which he had lifted her on that first day
of her coming, and floundered into water that was half way to his
knees. The rain rushed down upon him, beating upon his uncovered
head.
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