This time he raised an unsteady arm against the candle she held to his face, and she shrank back, shaking all over. Her first impulse was that of civilization,--to ring for help, at least for company. But what good would that do in an empty house? Josephine, until other women came to share her fears, had elected to sleep in a great chamber on the upper storey. Besides, what good would she be? Kirsty slept outside with the other farm servants. Eustace! no, no! not Eustace,--not now at any rate,--not till she was certain. There was the cook, of course; people in that rank of life were accustomed--oh, no! no! it was not possible. What a wretch she was to harbour such suspicions, when he might be ill--perhaps dying. With this protest in her mind, her rich draperies caught over her arm, the candle flaring, guttering, almost out in the swift search, she made her way to the unknown regions beyond the swing door, which separated work from leisure. Here? No! that must be the pantry. There? No! that was the gun-room. So, peering in at each room, she went along the stone passages till suddenly a door right in front of her opened, and Eustace Gordon came out, with a candle in his hand. He had been sitting up over the smoking-room fire, impelled, as she had been, to wakefulness by something, he knew not what. "Maud! Maud, my darling! What is it? What is the matter?" She forgot everything in the comfort of companionship as, still shaking with fear, she went swiftly to his side. "Edward. I think he is ill. Oh, Eustace, I am so frightened!" And he in his turn, taken utterly by surprise, seemed to forget everything save that the woman he loved passionately was there beside him. His thoughts had been so full of her, nothing but her, and now-- "Oh, come! please come; he is ill. I know he is ill." "Yes! I am coming," he said with an effort at self-control. "Where is he--in your room?" Then, with his arm round her, they went back through the silent house together. Those two alone. Yet not, it seemed to her, so much alone as when they stood at last with that drunken figure lying on the floor between them. She knew the truth at once in his quick exclamation, and then everything under sun and stars seemed to slip away and leave them face to face. "Eustace and she." "Eustace and me." The low rush of the waves caught the refrain and repeated it ceaselessly. "Don't be alarmed; you had better go away." She heard the words as in a dream, scarcely recognizing the voice in its harsh passion. "Stay, he shall not remain here; not here in your room." Then she felt his hands grip hers, and the voice rang with fierce resentment. "Maud! Maud! that this should have come to you--to you of all people. By heaven, it is too much. I will not bear it."