Rockhurst knocked, masterfully, sonorously. Then turning, the rein slung over his arm, he leaned against a pillar of the porch, removed his hat, and looked up smiling at her. There came sounds, answering sounds, indoor. Then he spoke:—
“Thank you,” he said.
“Do you thank me?” Her voice shook a little.
“Thank you,” he repeated, “for having shown me, once more, a vision of my youth such as I never thought to know again!”
The bars were now heard grating against the closed door. Rockhurst took a step forward. She read farewell in his eyes; and, flinging out both her hands, almost with a sob:—
“Ah, but shall we not meet again?” she said pleadingly. “Your name? Mine—nay, you know it already. It is indeed Diana. Diana—”
But he interrupted her with a quick gesture.
“Hush! My name? No, it is a name of no good report, and I would not have it dwell in your mind. And yours—it were best I should not know it.…” Then, after a slight pause: “You come as a dream to me, you go as a dream, perfect, sweet, beyond words. We shall never meet again, Diana.”
The inn doors were slowly drawing apart. He lifted his arms to help her down, held her a second between them to steady her, then, putting her gently aside, sprang into the saddle and forthwith spurred the mare to her heavy trot.
And Diana, looking after them, saw rider and mount passing from her, black against the snow. He never turned his head. She stood, bewilderment in her mind, pain at her heart.