But Benita neither heard nor saw. In her drugged rest she did not know
that her sleep turned gradually to a magic swoon. She had no knowledge
of her rising, or of how she threw her thick cloak about her, lit her
lamp, and, in obedience to that beckoning finger, glided from the tent.
She never heard her father stumble from his hut, disturbed by the sound
of footsteps, or the words that passed between him and Jacob Meyer,
while, lamp in hand, she stood near them like a strengthless ghost.
"If you dare to wake her," hissed Jacob, "I tell you that she will die,
and afterwards you shall die," and he fingered the pistol at his belt.
"No harm shall come to her--I swear it! Follow and see. Man, man, be
silent; our fortunes hang on it."
Then, overcome also by the strange fierceness of that voice and gaze, he
followed.
On they go to the winding neck of the cavern, first Jacob walking
backwards like the herald of majesty; then majesty itself in the shape
of this long-haired, death-like woman, cloaked and bearing in her hand
the light; and last, behind, the old, white-bearded man, like Time
following Beauty to the grave. Now they were in the great cavern, and
now, avoiding the open tombs, the well mouth and the altar, they stood
beneath the crucifix.
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