A faint breeze—there had been none perceptible on the ridge—played off the face of the cliffs. The forward swing of the cradle, too, raised a slight draught of air. Honoria plucked off her hat and veil and let it fan her temples.
Half-way across, she said, “Isn’t it like this—in mid-air over running water—that the witches take their oaths?”
Taffy ceased pulling on the rope. “The witches? Yes, I remember something of the sort.”
“And a word spoken so is an oath and lasts for ever. Very well; answer me what I came to ask you to-night.”
“What is that?” But he knew.
“That when—you know—when I tell you I was deceived... you will forgive.” Her voice was scarcely audible.
“I forgive.”
“Ah, but freely? It is only a word I want; but it has to last me like an oath.”
“I forgive you freely. It was all a mistake.”
“And you have found other ambitions! And they satisfy you?”