She stood motionless a moment, listening to the moaning of the wind. The man’s grim spirit troubled her. She remembered that he had bulwarked her in her homeless days, had dealt her much pity out of his rugged heart. He was alone now, and shadowed by death. Thus it befell that she cast the cloak aside upon the bed, and stood forward with quivering lips before the fire. "Fulviac." "Little sister." "Ah! God pardon me; I have been a weak and graceless friend. You have been good to me, beyond my gratitude. The past has gone for ever; what is left to me now? Shall I not meet death at your side?" He stood back from her, looking in her eyes, breathing hard, combating his own heart. He loved the girl in his fierce, staunch way; she was the one light left him in the gathering gloom. Now death offered him her soul. He tottered, stretched out his hands to her, snatched them back with a great burst of pride. "No, this cannot be." "Ah!" "I have dared the storm; alone will I fall beneath its vengeance. You shall go this night to Gilderoy." She thrust out her hands to him, but he turned away his face. "Ah! little sister, this war was conceived for God, but the devil leavened it. I have gambled with fire, and the ashes return upon my head. I give you life; ’tis little I may give. Come now, obey me, these are my last words." She turned from him very quietly in the shadow, hiding her face with her arm. Picking up her cloak, she drew it slowly about her shoulders, Fulviac watching her, a pillar of steel. "They wait for you in the forest," he said; "go down the stair. Colgran rides with you to Gilderoy. He is to be trusted." She drooped her head, staggered to the door, darted back again with a low cry and a gush of tears. "Fulviac." "Little woman." "God keep you! Kiss me, this once." He bent to her, touched her forehead with his lips, thrust her again towards the door. "Go, my child." And she went forth slowly from him, weeping, into the night. XLI The prophecies of the King proved the power of their pinions before fourteen suns had passed over the Black Wild’s heart. Richard of Lauretia had plotted to starve Fulviac into giving him battle, or into a retreat from the forest upon Gilderoy. The royal prognostications were pitiless and unflinching as candescent steel. It was no mere battle-ground that he sought, but rather an amphitheatre where he might martyr the rebel host like a mob of revolted slaves.