Barbara was still lying like one asleep before the fire when he returned, for she had been so near to death that life seemed to steal back softly and slowly as though still afraid. John Gore had never looked thus at his love before, as a man might look at a sleeping child or at some fair valley under a golden dawn. He saw the faint flush upon her cheeks, the shadowy sweep of the long lashes, the little dark curls of hair falling with such a sheen of sweetness over her forehead, the line of the red mouth, the soft warmth of her skin. She looked thin, poor child, frail and tragical, and yet the suffering that she had borne had shed a glamour over her that made her more lovable and more womanly than of old. His heart went out to her with all the awe of a man’s desire as he stood and watched the coming of life—and love. There was a fluttering of the shadowy lashes, a long-drawn breath, a movement of the hands, and then the low cry of one waking to some revolting memory. John Gore bent over her and took her hands in his. “There is nothing to fear, dear heart.” A shudder ran through her as she looked at him, and some moments passed before light and understanding swept the shadows from her eyes. But the look that came into them when her soul awoke made John Gore long to take her in his arms and to hold her close to him, so that he could feel the beating of her heart. “John—is it you?” She spoke huskily, from the bruising of her throat by Simon Pinniger’s murderous hands. “It is all over, Barbe. We are king and queen of the castle.” He wished to hide all the grimness of the night’s work from her, seeing that her great eyes were ready to grow frightened and full of fear, showing that she had borne too much already in body and soul. “John, I remember it all now—they were smothering me in the dark!” He took her face between his two hands, and looked dearly into her eyes. “Barbara, you are in my keeping; try and forget all that, dear heart. I came in time to scare those wolves into the night. Now you must suffer me to have my way.” She looked up at him almost timidly, as though conscious of his nearness and the homage in his eyes. It had been dark at the tower window, but now they saw each other in the light, and a mysterious coyness covered her face. “I will do all that you wish, John.” “I shall take you away to-night.” “Yes, yes; take me away from Thorn.” Her hands went into his. “There is a moon, dear, and I have a pillion for you, if you are strong enough.” “Oh yes, I am quite strong now.” She made as though to sit up on the couch, but she grew faint instantly, so that John Gore held her with one arm about her shoulders. “More spirit than strength, Barbe, yet.” Some of her old obstinacy appeared in her for the moment. “No, I am only a little giddy.” “Lie down again.” “No, I must make a start.”