"Sir," said she, softly, "we part here, my home lies yonder," and
she pointed to where above the motionless tree-tops rose the gables
and chimneys of a goodly house.
"It would seem to be fairly comfortable as prisons go," said Barnabas;
but my lady only sighed.
"Do you start for London--soon?"
"To-night," nodded Barnabas.
"Sir," said she, after a pause, "I would thank you, if I could,
for--for all that you have done for me."
"No, no," said Barnabas, hastily.
"Words are poor things, I know, but how else may I show my gratitude?"
And now it was Barnabas who was silent; but at last--
"There is a way," said he, staring at the finger-post.
"How--what way?"
"You might--kiss me--once, Cleone."
Now here she must needs steal a swift look at him, and thus she saw
that he still stared at the ancient finger-post, but that his hands
were tight clenched.
"I only ask," he continued heavily, "for what I might have taken."
"But didn't!" she added, with lips and eyes grown suddenly tender.
"No," sighed Barnabas, "nor shall I ever,--until you will
it so,--because, you see, I love you."
Now as he gazed at the finger-post, even so she gazed at him; and
thus she saw again the mark upon his cheek, and looking, sighed;
indeed, it was the veriest ghost of a sigh, yet Barnabas heard it,
and straightway forgot the finger-post, forgot the world and all
things in it, save her warm beauty, the red allurement of her mouth,
and the witchery of her drooping lashes; therefore he reached out
his hands to her, and she saw that they were trembling.
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