Again he softly kissed her.

‘We shall never go apart again,’ he murmured quietly. And she did not speak, but only pressed her hands firmer down upon the source of darkness in him.

They decided, when they woke again from the pure swoon, to write their resignations from the world of work there and then. She wanted this.

He rang the bell, and ordered note–paper without a printed address. The waiter cleared the table.

‘Now then,’ he said, ‘yours first. Put your home address, and the date—then “Director of Education, Town Hall—Sir—” Now then!—I don’t know how one really stands—I suppose one could get out of it in less than month—Anyhow “Sir—I beg to resign my post as classmistress in the Willey Green Grammar School. I should be very grateful if you would liberate me as soon as possible, without waiting for the expiration of the month’s notice.” That’ll do. Have you got it? Let me look. “Ursula Brangwen.” Good! Now I’ll write mine. I ought to give them three months, but I can plead health. I can arrange it all right.’

He sat and wrote out his formal resignation.

‘Now,’ he said, when the envelopes were sealed and addressed, ‘shall we post them here, both together? I know know Jackie will say, “Here’s a coincidence!” when he receives them in all their identity. Shall we let him say it, or not?’

‘I don’t care,’ she said.

‘No—?’ he said, pondering.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Their imaginations shall not work on us. I’ll post yours here, mine after. I cannot be implicated in their imaginings.’

He looked at her with his strange, non–human singleness.

‘Yes, you are right,’ she said.

She lifted her face to him, all shining and open. It was as if he might enter straight into the source of her radiance. His face became a little distracted.

‘Shall we go?’ he said.

‘As you like,’ she replied.

They were soon out of the little town, and running through the uneven lanes of the country. Ursula nestled near him, into his constant warmth, and watched the pale–lit revelation racing ahead, the visible night. Sometimes it was a wide old road, with grass–spaces on either side, flying magic and elfin in the greenish illumination, sometimes it was trees looming overhead, sometimes it was bramble bushes, sometimes the walls of a crew–yard and the butt of a barn.

‘Are you going to Shortlands to dinner?’ Ursula asked him suddenly. He started.

‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Shortlands! Never again. Not that. Besides we should be too late.’

‘Where are we going then—to the Mill?’

‘If you like. Pity to go anywhere on this good dark night. Pity to come out of it, really. Pity we can’t stop in the good darkness. It is better than anything ever would be—this good immediate darkness.’

“We must make our start at once,” said Jefferson Hope speaking in a low but resolute voice, like one who realizes the greatness of the peril, but has steeled his heart to meet it. “The front and back entrances are watched, but with caution we may get away through the side window and across the fields. Once on the road we are only two miles from the Ravine where the horses are waiting. By daybreak we should be halfway through the mountains.”

“What if we are stopped?” asked Ferrier.

Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of his tunic. “If they are too many for us, we shall take two or three of them with us,” he said with a sinister smile.

The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the darkened window Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his own, and which he was now about to abandon forever. He had long nerved himself to the sacrifice, however and the thought of the honour and happiness of his daughter outweighed any regret at his ruined fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy, the rustling trees and the broad silent stretch of grainland, that it was difficult to realize that the spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet the white face and set expression of the young hunter showed that in his approach to the house he had seen enough to satisfy him upon that head.

Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the scanty provisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle containing a few of her more valued possessions. Opening the window very slowly and carefully, they waited until a dark cloud had somewhat obscured the night, and then one by one passed through into the little garden. With bated breath and crouching figures they stumbled across it, and gained the shelter of the hedge, which they skirted until they came to the gap which opened into the cornfield. They had just reached this point when the young man seized his two companions and dragged them down into the shadow, where they lay silent and trembling.

It was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson Hope the ears of a lynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down before the melancholy hooting of a mountain owl was heard within a few yards of them, which was immediately answered by another hoot at a small distance. At the same moment a vague, shadowy figure emerged from the gap for which they had been making, and uttered the plaintive signal cry again, on which a second man appeared out of the obscurity.

“To-morrow at midnight,” said the first, who appeared to be in authority. “When the whippoorwill calls three times.”

“It is well,” returned the other. “Shall I tell Brother Drebber?”

“Pass it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine to seven!”

“Seven to five!” repeated the other; and the two figures flitted away in different directions. Their concluding words had evidently been some form of sign and countersign. The instant that their footsteps had died away in the distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and helping his companions through the gap, led the way across the fields at the top of his speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when her strength appeared to fail her.