Winifred was so full of health and enjoyment of life that, courageous
as she was. I felt that the prospect of certain and imminent death
must appal her; and to see the look of terror break over her face
confronting death was what I could not bear. And yet the thing must
be said. But at this very moment, when my perplexity seemed direst, a
blessed thought came to me--a subterfuge holier than truth. I knew
the Cymric superstition about 'the call from the grave,' for had not
she herself just told me of it?
'I will turn Superstition, accursed Superstition itself, to account,'
I muttered. 'I will pretend that I am enmeshed in a web of Fate, and
doomed to die here myself. Then, if I know my Winifred, she will, of
her own free mind, die with me.'
'Winnie,' I said, 'I have to tell you something that I know must
distress you sorely on my account--something that must wring your
heart, dear, and yet it must be told.'
She turned her head sharply round with a look of alarm that almost
silenced me, so pathetic was it. On that courageous face I had not
seen alarm before, and this was alarm for evil coming to me.
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