It may not be too late.  I shall try.  I am going at once to do all that I can to warn or to guard a great man’s life.  The delay in getting the fresh horse is the worst; but,” hastily grasping his hand again, “if I am too late, if I fail and never come back, tell Ruth that I did my best.  Tell her that I have done my best ever since I have known.  I have kept away from Cedar House—­have only seen her far off, feeding the birds.  But that was all I could do.  I couldn’t help thinking of her, I couldn’t help what I felt.  You will remember—­and tell her?”

He looked down in the boy’s frightened face with a strange smile, and then touching his horse with the spur, he flashed out of sight among the trees.

XVIII

THE GENTLEST ARE THE BRAVEST

The boy stood staring after him in dazed alarm.  He could not comprehend the cause of his friend’s sudden agitation and abrupt departure, but they filled him with vague, helpless terror.  He did not know what to do till he suddenly felt the urgency of the message to Ruth, and the thought of her made him turn and start running back to Cedar House.

As he went, he instinctively tried to calm himself; he was fast learning to hide the emotion which was always shaking him.  On reaching the door he paused for a moment, and strove hard to control his panting breath.  He almost hoped that this might prove to be merely one of the fancies which were constantly swaying him.  And then there was an instinctive feeling that it would be best not to tell any one except Ruth what had occurred.  The meaning of the message to her was not yet clear to him, but he nevertheless felt it to be something which she might not wish others to hear.  He did not remember that the message was not to be given her unless Paul failed to come back.  There had not been time for Paul to impress this upon him, and it was natural enough that the boy, startled and frightened, should not have noted all that was said.

His one aim now was to get a word alone with Ruth, and hastily looking round the room, he saw her sitting near the hearth.  But there was no chance to approach her, or to speak without being overheard by the whole family.  Every member of the household was present, it being the evening hour when all households come closest together around the fireside.  The supper-table was laid, and a servant moved about lighting the lamps and candles.  William Pressley was sitting near Ruth, but it was she who had last taken a seat and he was silent, save as some timid advance from her compelled him to make a coldly civil reply.  His resentment was as implacable as ever; the wound to his self-love had only grown deeper with nursing, as it always does with a nature like his.  The breaking of the engagement was with him, now, merely a question of timeliness, of discretion and expediency.  In these matters he was not considering Ruth’s feelings as she was considering his, despite her own