"But I have no pass."
The stranger and the girl, standing in silence, while the slanting sunlight was sending long shadows over the grass, looked around for some place—a hut, or a barn, or anything where a man who was tired could lie down and sleep; but there was nothing of that sort in view; no village, far or near.
"There is no place that I can see," said Margaret, who had never noticed how empty the fields were of houses until now, when they were so badly needed.
"Ah, well! I may not complain," the stranger muttered. "Why should I? Even the dear Lord saw many a sun go down, and had nowhere to lay His head."
He spoke more to himself, as if forgetful that the girl was near, until she moved.
"I will sit down under the chestnut tree, and take my chance, unless your home is anywhere outside the city walls."
"I live in the city, sir, but they know me, and I have a permit to get in after the gates are shut," said Margaret. "And yet I am so sorry for you," she went on softly.
"If I only knew where I might find some food I would not care," the stranger said, gazing around him, his hand above his eyes.
A low call came while he was speaking, like the sweet note of the last evening bird. It travelled over the meadow from the river, and Margaret looked up quickly. Her dark eyes flashed, and her lips parted with pleasure; then she sent back an answering cry, full of soft, rich music. The stranger, watching her pale face, saw the flush of colour darken it, and, worn out though he was, he marvelled at her beauty, and smiled to himself.
"Pardon me for a moment, sir," she exclaimed, when her answer ended. "I will come back again."