"It's impossible that he is blind," said Willoughby. "He sees us."
"He sees nothing."
Again Durrance called "Ethne," but now in a louder voice, and a voice of
doubt.
"Do you hear? He is not sure," whispered Ethne. "Keep very still."
"Why?"
"He must not know you are here," and lest Willoughby should move, she
caught his arm tight in her hand. Willoughby did not pursue his
inquiries. Ethne's manner constrained him to silence. She sat very
still, still as she wished him to sit, and in a queer huddled attitude;
she was even holding her breath; she was staring at Durrance with a
great fear in her eyes; her face was strained forward, and not a muscle
of it moved, so that Willoughby, as he looked at her, was conscious of a
certain excitement, which grew on him for no reason but her remarkable
apprehension. He began unaccountably himself to fear lest he and she
should be discovered.
"He is coming towards us," he whispered.
"Not a word, not a movement."
"Ethne," Durrance cried again. He advanced farther into the enclosure
and towards the seat. Ethne and Captain Willoughby sat rigid, watching
him with their eyes. He passed in front of the bench, and stopped
actually facing them.
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