Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
They heard no more. The girl was already dragging O'Rourke away.
"Ten minutes!" she whispered gratefully.
"'Tis every bit as good as a year, just now," O'Rourke assured her, lightly—more lightly than his emotions warranted, indeed.
"Ah, m'sieur!" she said fearfully.
"Whisht, darlint," he cried. "Don't ye be worrying about me now. 'Tis the O'Rourke that can care for his head, Mam'selle Delphine—now that ye've given me a fighting chance."
But she only answered, "Come!" tugging impatiently at his hand; and he was very willing to follow her, even unto the ends of the known world, as long as he might be so led by those warm, soft fingers.
But he grew quite bewildered in the following few minutes. It seemed that they threaded a most curious maze of vacant rooms and sounding galleries, all in total eclipse. And once, for some time, they were passing through what seemed a tunnel, dark and musty, wherein the Irishman, by putting forth his free hand, was able to touch a rough, damp wall of hewn stone.
But at the end of that they came to a doorway, where they halted. The girl evidently produced a key, for she released O'Rourke's hand, and a second later he heard the grating of a rusty lock and then the protests of reluctant hinges.
"And where will this be taking us?" he asked at length.
"To safety, for you, I pray, m'sieur."
"Thank ye, Mam'selle Delphine."
"Quick!" she interrupted impatiently.
A rush of cool air and fresh enveloped them. O'Rourke stepped out after the girl, who turned and swung to the door, relocking it.
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