In this petulant mood, Lady O'Moy crossed the quadrangle, loitered
a moment by the table and chairs placed under the trellis, and
considered sitting there to await the others. Finally, however,
attracted by the glory of the sunset behind the hills towards
Abrantes, she sauntered out on to the terrace, to the intense
thankfulness of a poor wretch who had waited there for the past ten
hours in the almost despairing hope that precisely such a thing
might happen.
She was leaning upon the balustrade when a rustle in the pines below
drew her attention. The rustle worked swiftly upwards and round to
the bushes on her right, and her eyes, faintly startled, followed
its career, what time she stood tense and vaguely frightened.
Then the bushes parted and a limping figure that leaned heavily upon
a stick disclosed itself; a shaggy, red-bearded man in the garb of a
peasant; and marvel of marvels! - this figure spoke her name sharply,
warningly almost, before she had time to think of screaming.
"Una! Una! Don't move!"
The voice was certainly the voice of Mr. Butler. But how came that
voice into the body of this peasant? Terrified, with drumming
pulses, yet obedient to the injunction, she remained without speech
or movement, whilst crouching so as to keep below the level of the
balustrade the man crept forward until he was immediately before and
below her.
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