She was moving to the door, but he caught her wrists just below the hanging lace of her sleeve; and holding her thus, he told her in a few graphic sentences all his thoughts as he had rested under the rafters behind the chest--the reason and the history of his scouting venture, the mental trysts he had held with her so often. All the intensity of his strong nature went into that appeal; it seemed as if a heart of ice must have melted in it; and for a moment her head did droop and her hands tremble, then she shrugged her gleaming shoulders again, saying:-- "It had certainly been more soldier-like to have come for love of your cause, rather than for sake of a girl's eyes." "For sake of both did I come." "A spy--" But she got no further; something in her tone stung him to the quick. "You need not speak so disparagingly. A spy's work may not be pleasant, but it is absolutely necessary. Without the information he sends his general, false steps might be taken and hundreds of lives needlessly sacrificed. A spy has a humane as well as a dangerous mission." "'Tis well you think so highly of your calling. Good night again." "Joscelyn, do not leave me thus; this day we have each looked into the eyes of death--let us at least part as friends." She turned back, her face dimpling with a smile that was like a gleam of sunshine, "Good night, Richard, and a safe awakening." Then she was gone; and he threw himself down to sleep the sleep of utter weariness. Joscelyn sat on the rug before her almost burned-out fire, trying to disengage the attic key from the big bunch her mother habitually wore at her belt, and thinking rapidly of the events of the day. She knew that the end had not been reached, but she was determined to brave it out; there was nothing else to do,--there had been nothing else from the first. And she must stand alone. Fresh inquiry would be instituted to-morrow, and her mother's veracity could not stand the strain to which it might be put if she knew all. Neither could the secret be shared with Aunt Clevering, for her mother-heart might betray its anxiety, and so would another family be involved. She must bear the burden herself; must evade, pretend, even _lie_, if need be, to keep the knowledge from any one else. The man had fled to her for sanctuary; which were worse, she asked herself bitterly, to soil her lips with an untruth, or her hands with a betrayal, a breach of trust and of hospitality? From Betty and Aunt Clevering she could expect no mercy of neglect, because of that hasty speech about the attic closet. It had been made thoughtlessly, to establish her own footing more securely by a great show of loyalty; but would, she knew, act as a two-edged sword, cutting away part of her safety. To-morrow she would not dare leave the house all day lest something terrible transpire in her absence; she must feign some pretext for staying indoors--perchance a headache from the effects of her fright.