She spoke in such a low tone, the childish eyes were so wide open, the heart beating so rapidly beneath the fine lace which covered her breast, that one who knew nothing of her Eastern birth or of all that the love of a man meant to her, might well have believed her story an hysterical fiction and turned from it with just impatience. To Evelyn, however, it spoke of danger as no other word of all that evil night had done. The peril of the house, the vengeance which might fall upon it--the price of the betrayal, her own silence when a word might save a man from the penalty of his sins--this all flashed through her troubled brain and left her with a new sense of helplessness and surpassing dismay. "How did you come here; how did you enter this room?" she asked quickly. "Molines, my uncle, who brought you here--he keeps the keys, excellency." "Then he let you in--he knows of your being here?" "He knows, excellency, and is afraid. We must save the English lady, he said. That is why he sent me to you." "I must see your uncle at once, Djala.... I must tell the Count. What you speak of is a great crime. Let us make them hear us. Oh, my God, we cannot be silent." The doubt and suspense of it all became overwhelming, and she stood groping in the dim light for the doorway and beating upon it with both her hands. No one, however, answered her. The little gypsy crouching by the fire seemed afraid to move or to speak. The silence of the house remained unbroken. Evelyn turned away in such despair as seemed to her scarcely human. "When is your brother coming here?" she asked the child. Djala answered without looking up. "I do not know, but he will come, excellency ... and he will speak for me to the Count. Yes, and then----" The words were stilled upon her lips and she sat up to listen. A sound of men's voices suddenly made itself audible in the room below. The gypsy heard it first and spoke no more of her vengeance. "That is my brother's voice," she said--and then, realizing what she had done, she caught at Evelyn's dress with both her hands and implored her pity. "Save him, excellency, for Christ's dear sake, save the man I love," she implored. "I cannot save him, Djala--am I not as helpless as you? ... I cannot save him." They waited together, hand in hand, listening to the story which the voices told them. Now it would be to the voice of argument, then to that of entreaty, ultimately to the swift interchange of phrase which spoke of anger. When the duologue ceased, the silence had greater terrors of doubt than any they had yet suffered. What had happened, then? Why did none come to them? They could but hope that reason had prevailed. "Let us light a lamp, excellency; I am afraid of the dark." "I cannot do it, Djala.... I cannot find the switch." "Let us try together, excellency--how your hands tremble! And mine are cold, so cold. Let us try to find the light."