She always contrived to be one of the first in the village to get tidings from the army; and when tales went about of the first battles that had taken place, she was obliged, as she listened, to lean against the great stone cross that stood at the entrance of the village, so weak and faint did the strong Paùna turn. At night all sleep forsook her, and she often had to let her light burn till morning, to chase away the terrible visions that arose before her in the darkness, of Tannas covered with wounds, and dead or dying. One dark night she was sitting thus, still dressed, upon the edge of her bed—and never knew that, outside, some one was gliding round the house, and peeping in at her little window. She did not know, either, how beautiful she looked, gazing before her with wide-open eyes, her hands folded upon her knee. All at once there was a knocking on the window, and she sprang up with a stifled cry, turning her head and trying to pierce the darkness with her eyes. Then she fancied she could make out the face of Tannas at the window, and presently, indeed, she heard him call her in low tones—
“Paùna, dear Paùna, I pray thee to come out to me. Do not be afraid; it is only I, Tannas.”
Paùna’s hand was already upon the latch—in a moment she was outside, and felt herself enfolded in a warm embrace. But she put aside the arm that clasped her, and said: “Art thou Tannas indeed, or is some one making sport of me?”
“Here, feel thine own little ring, Paùna; and here again, the coin about my neck. I could bear it no longer, without coming to see whether thou wert true to me.”
“Who gave thee leave to come away from the army?”
“Me? No one.”
“No one?—and thou art here? Is the war over, then?”
“Nay, there is still war. But I came secretly, and out of love to thee, Paùna!”
“Love to me!” Paùna gave a short, bitter laugh. “Dost thou think, then, that it gives me pleasure to have a deserter for my betrothed? Go out of my sight!”