It was like telling the news of
an absent ghost to another present.
"This town was never a place," said Gilly, with all his former
steadiness,--"never a place to bring a woman. And--and of her age."
All three men listened to the conflict of gongs and crackers, and to the
shouting, now muffled and distant behind the knoll. All three, as it
seemed to Rudolph, had consented to ignore something vile.
"That's all I wanted to know," said the older man, slowly. "I must get
back to my post. You didn't say, but--She made no attempt to come here?
Well, that's--that's lucky. I'll go back."
For some time again they stood as though listening, till Heywood
spoke:--
"Holding your own, are you, by the water gate?"
"Oh, yes," replied Forrester, rousing slightly. "All quiet there. No
more arrows. Converts behaving splendidly. Two or three have begged
for guns."
"Give 'em this." Heywood skipped up the ladder, to return with a rifle.
"And this belt--Kempner's. Poor chap, he'll never ask you to return
them.--Anything else?"
"No," answered Gilly, taking the dead man's weapon, and moving off into
the darkness.
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