All the masterfulness, all the bombast, had been crushed out
of him; even the splendor of his flaring hazel eyes was dimmed--they
were hollow, hopeless, old. For a long time he did not speak, only
drank the coffee and submitted himself meekly to their ministrations;
then at last he touched Sylvie with a trembling hand.
"Sylvie," he whispered brokenly.
"Hugh, dear, you're safe now; please speak; please laugh; you frighten
me more than anything--why is he so silent, Pete? Bella, tell me
what's wrong?"
"He's been crouching there on the damp, cold ground for hours," said
Bella, "not knowing what might happen." Her voice trembled; she passed
a hand as shaking as her voice across Hugh's bent head. "You're safe
now. You're safe now," she murmured.
Hugh's teeth chattered, and he bent closer to the fire.
"Ugh--it was cold down there," he said, "like a grave! Sylvie, come
here." Just an echo of his old imperious fashion it was--though the
look was that of a beggar for alms. "Give me those warm little hands
of yours." She knelt close to him, rubbed his hands in hers, looking
up at Pete with a tremulous mouth that asked for advice.
"He'll be all right in a minute," said Pete.
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