r her once
complaining of me--not once. A common donkey compared to her! All I can
do is to pray. And she knows the beast I am, and has forgiven me. There
isn't a blessed text of Scripture that doesn't cry out in praise of her.
And they cut and hack . . . !' He dropped his head. The vehement big man
heaved, shuddering. His lips worked fast.

'She is not alone with them, unsupported?' said Dacier.

Sir Lukin moaned for relief. He caught his watch swinging and stared at
it. 'What a good fellow you were to come! Now 's the time to know your
friends. There's Diana Warwick, true as steel. Redworth came on her
tiptoe for the Continent; he had only to mention . . . Emmy wanted to
spare her. She would not have sent--wanted to spare her the sight. I
offered to stand by . . . Chased me out. Diana Warwick's there:--worth
fifty of me! Dacier, I've had my sword-blade tried by Indian horsemen,
and I know what true as steel means. She's there. And I know she shrinks
from the sight of blood. My oath on it, she won't quiver a muscle! Next
to my wife, you may take my word for it, Dacier, Diana Warwick is the
pick of living women. I could prove it. They go together. I could prove
it over and over. She 's the loyallest woman anywhere. Her one error was
that marriage of hers, and how she ever pitched herself into it, none of
us can guess.' After a while, he said: 'Look at your watch.'

'Nearly twenty minutes gone.'

'Are they afraid to send out word? It's that window!' He covered his
eyes, and muttered, sighed. He became abruptly composed in appearance.
'The worst of a black sheep like me is, I'm such an infernal sinner, that
Providence! . . . But both surgeons gave me their word of honour that
there was a chance. A chance! But it's the end of me if Emmy . . . . Good
God! no! the knife's enough; don't let her be killed! It would be murder.
Here am I talking! I ought to be praying. I should have sent for the
parson to help me; I can't get the proper words--bellow like a rascal
trooper strung up for the cat. It must be twenty-five minutes now. Who's
alive now!'

Dacier thought of the Persian Queen crying for news of the slaughtered,
with her mind on her lord and husband: 'Who is not dead?' Diana exalted
poets, and here was an example of the truth of one to nature, and of the
poor husband's depth of feeling. They said not the same thing, but it was
the same cry de profundis.

He saw Redworth coming at a quick pace.

Redworth raised his