She could hear Miltoun reproaching his
grandmother in words terribly dry and bitter. She edged nearer and
nearer, till, seeing that they paid no more heed to her than if she were
an attendant statue, she had regained her position by the window.
Lady Casterley was speaking.
"I was not going to see you ruined before my eyes, Eustace. I did what I
did at very great cost. I did my best for you."
Barbara saw Miltoun's face transfigured by a dreadful smile--the smile
of one defying his torturer with hate. Lady Casterley went on:
"Yes, you stand there looking like a devil. Hate me if you like--but
don't betray us, moaning and moping because you can't have the moon.
Put on your armour, and go down into the battle. Don't play the coward,
boy!"
Miltoun's answer cut like the lash of a whip.
"By God! Be silent!"
And weirdly, there was silence. It was not the brutality of the words,
but the sight of force suddenly naked of all disguise--like a fierce
dog let for a moment off its chain--which made Barbara utter a little
dismayed sound. Lady Casterley had dropped into a chair, trembling. And
without a look Miltoun passed her. If their grandmother had fallen dead,
Barbara knew he would not have stopped to see. She ran forward, but the
old woman waved her away.
"Go after him," she said, "don't let him go alone.
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