The lamp was
on a table and beside the table there sat a woman, her white head turned
from him, her face buried in her hands. She was an old woman and he knew
that it was Marion's mother. He could not see the man.
Where was Marion? He wormed himself back out of the bushes and walked
quickly around the house. There was no other light, no other sign of
life except in that one room. With sudden resolution he stepped to the
door and knocked loudly.
For a full half minute there was silence, and he knocked again. He heard
the approach of a shuffling step, the thump, thump, thump of a cane, and
the door swung back. It was the man who opened it, a tall giant of an
old man, doubled as if with rheumatism, and close behind him was the
frightened face of the woman. An involuntary shudder passed through
Nathaniel as he looked at them. They were old--so old that the man's
shrivelled hands were like those of a skeleton; his giant frame seemed
about to totter into ruin, his eyes were sunken until his face gave the
horror of a death mask. Was it possible that these people were the
father and mother of Marion--and of Neil? As he stepped to the threshold
they timidly drew back from him. In a single glance Nathaniel swept the
room and what he saw thrilled him, for everywhere were signs of Marion;
in the pictures on the walls, the snowy curtains, the cushions in the
window-seat--and the huge vase of lilacs on the mantle.
"I am a messenger of the king," he said, advancing and closing the door
behind him.
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