Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. His sword-arm fell useless at his side and she knew herself safe. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. "To be lonely! What is physical torture, if someone who loves you is nigh? But to be alone … as I am!… yes, and as you are! Oh, you haven't told me, but I can see with half an eye. " So saying, he closed the lantern. “There ought to be some means of getting at him,” he said.
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