He picked up his hat and smoothed its pheasant’s feather, while he smiled at her and said, mysteriously:
“Who knows? On through the woods, over the hills. Autumn is coming, and the vagabond takes the road again.”
She went to him and put her hand in his. So, hand in hand, they walked toward the verandah.
“I shall never forget you.”
“That is good,” he said. He stopped her as she was stepping out on the verandah. “Wait. Go back. There is too much light behind you. Who knows what curious eyes may lurk in the darkness below?” He leaped back nimbly and turned off the light from the tall lamp. Pointing to the valley and the river flooded with moonlight, he said, “See how my golden path winds before me. Now, I leave you.” With another nimble movement he had climbed to the railing.
“Oh—not that way,” she urged.
“It’s a quick way. A leap, and I am in the road below. Farewell, Rosamond Mearely. Till love comes again, my merely Rosamond, say good-night, and wish me well.”
“Good-night! I—I do not know your name!”
“A vagabond has no name.” he answered. He bent and swiftly kissed the hand still trying to hold him, unclasped its fingers, and jumped to the road.
“Good-bye, forever and ever, my vagabond.” Rosamond tried to call the words to him, but a sob stopped them.