Had the cook been kind to him?
She hastened downstairs, passed the closed door of the improvised dining-room, traversed the hall to the porch, and, lifting the skirts of her gray garb, sped across the frozen yards to the kitchen.
The cook had gone; fire smouldered in the range; and a single candle guttered in its tin cup on the table.
Beside it, seated on a stool, elbows planted on both knees, face buried in his spread fingers, sat the lancer, apparently asleep.
She cast a rapid glance at the table.

The remains of the food satisfied her that he had had his hot dinner.

Once more she glanced at him, and then started to withdraw on tiptoe.
And he raised his head; and she gazed into the face of Berkley.
Neither stirred, although in the shock of discovery she felt that she would drop where she stood.

Then, instinctively, she reached for the table's edge, rested against it, hand clutching it, fascinated eyes never leaving his face.
He got up leisurely, walked toward her, made an abrupt turn and faced her again from the window recess, leaning back against the closed wooden shutters.
Her heart was beating too rapidly for her to speak; she tried to straighten her shoulders, lift her head.

Both sank, and she looked down blindly through the throbbing silence.
Berkley spoke first; but she could not answer him.