"Understand,
mistress, no word you speak, no promise you may be compelled to give,
binds me. No matter how fettered you may be, I am free to do as I will,
and God help the man who seeks to work you evil!"
Barbara had seen him in many moods, known him as dreamer, jester,
counsellor, and philosopher, always with an air of unreality in what he
did and said, always "Mad Martin," yet with strange wisdom and cunning
in his madness at times. In this mood she had never seen him before. His
face, indeed, the whole man, was changed. Madness must have got the
upper hand entirely for a moment.
"Why, Martin, you--"
But he had gone. She had been too astonished to speak at once, and the
door had closed before she could finish her sentence. The mood seemed to
pass quickly, too, for looking from the window, Barbara saw him cross
the square, the familiar figure, in spite of the conventional garments
which he wore in town and which suited him so ill. He could never be the
real Martin Fairley away from that tower in the ruins at Aylingford,
Barbara thought.
Not without reason was Fairley's warning, for if a woman will make a
sacrifice she seldom counts the full cost.
Pages:
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250