"Why not?" he asked, as they walked on, and the colonel, affecting a slowness in gait, heard the words. "Just because you used to walk there in your—in other days," he substituted quickly, "is no reason why you shouldn't now, is it?"
"Only—memories!" Her voice was very low.
"Memories? Bah!" The words were as though he spewed them from his mouth like a bitter taste. "Come on!" and his tones were rough.
The woman looked at him a moment with eyes that seemed to burn through her veil, and then followed. The colonel passed on ahead, slouched across the street once more, and lagged behind, so that he might follow.
The couple turned toward the outskirts of the village, where, on a hill, known locally as "The Heights" there was a grove of trees. Below the hill, at one place cutting deep into it and making a precipitous cliff, was a little river. At the point where the stream had bitten into the hill it had washed for itself a defile, the bottom rock-covered, so that the waters swirled over it in foam.
The Heights was the favorite trysting place of lovers, and many were the pleasant spots there. With evening coming on, it was almost sure to be deserted, though later, if there was a moon, murmuring voices would mingle with the eclipse of the swirling waters in the gully below.
"Yes, it's a quiet place for a talk," mused the colonel.
The man and woman passed on. Behind them came the shadower, and behind him Aaron Grafton.
Up The Heights walked the leading pair, seemingly unaware of the presence of any one but themselves. Into the shadows they strolled, still stiff and uncompromising, both of them. At last the woman, halting near the edge of the cliff, beyond which the woods were thicker, faced the man.
"This is far enough," she said, and she turned so that the fast-fading light of the west was on her veiled face. She did not raise the mesh.