It was a thing for which no thanks could be given.

She stood a while, sad and thoughtful, reflecting, it seemed, on what had passed; then she turned slowly and left him, crossed the open space, and entered the house, walking as one under a heavy burden.
And he?
He remained, troubled at one time by the yearning to follow and comfort and cherish her; cast at another into a cold sweat by the recollection of that voice in the night, and the strange ties which bound her to Basterga.

Innocent, it seemed to him, that connection could not be.

Based on aught but evil it could hardly be.

Yet he must endure, witness, cloak it.