"Cleone," he murmured, "oh, Cleone--look up!"
But even as he spoke she recoiled from his touch, for, plain and
clear, came the sound of footsteps on the road near by. Sighing,
Barnabas turned thitherwards and beheld advancing towards them one
who paused, now and then, to look about him as though at a loss, and
then hurried on again. A very desolate figure he was, and quaintly
pathetic because of his gray hair, and the empty sleeve that flapped
helplessly to and fro with the hurry of his going--a figure, indeed,
that there was no mistaking. Being come to the finger-post, he
paused to look wistfully on all sides, and Barnabas could see that
his face was drawn and haggard. For a moment he gazed about him
wild-eyed and eager, then with a sudden, hopeless gesture, he leaned
his one arm against the battered sign-post and hid his face there.
"Oh, my lass--my dear!" he cried in a strangled voice, "why did you
leave me? Oh, my lass!"
Then all at once came a rustle of parting leaves, the flutter of
flying draperies, and Cleone had fled to that drooping, disconsolate
figure, had wreathed her protecting arms about it, and so all moans,
and sobs, and little tender cries, had drawn her tyrant's head down
upon her gentle bosom and clasped it there.
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