THE SILVER CORD.
BY SHIRLEY BROOKS.
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CHAPTER LXXXIII.
It was late in the night, and the moonlight again lay upon Versailles, and Laura was at her window.
Her brother-in-law would see her early in the morning.
Versailles had long been silent, and the only sounds that came upon the ear of the watcher were the calm voices of the bells that told the hours, and the occasional sweep of the wind through the silvered trees. And little she heeded either, for her thoughts were of the same hour in an English home, and of children in the deep still sleep of happiness.
How long she had sat at that window, she knew not. But she believed herself to be standing near the little bed of her youngest child, and softly drawing back the clustered hair from his forehead, when she heard her name uttered, and she was again at the foliaged window of her house of exile.
Startled, first, and then with a shudder that agitated her whole being, Laura made a faint effort to reply, but the word died upon her lips, and she became stone-cold with terror.
For she knew the voice but too well.
“You are there, I can see you,” said Ernest Adair, distinctly, but not aloud.
But Laura could neither answer, nor make a sign, nor obey the instinct that bade her draw away from the window.
“You hear me but you will not reply,” he said, “It is not needful. You have the victory, and you have deserved it. But go to England, or your triumph will be useless. You hear me, go to England.”
Her hand had lain among the foliage, and an involuntary movement detached a leaf, and it fell.
“I understand you,” said Adair. “That is a sign that you hear, and will obey my counsel. Lose no time, for death is busy among us. Farewell.”
He picked up the leaf, but she did not see the action, and she heard no more. Henderson found