He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. "Oh, God! that I might die too," cried Jack, falling on his knees beside her. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying bark was about to put to shore. When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery.
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