"Would I?"
"Then hear! It is the bold fellow who conspires with himself against her."
Edward Pullar was passing among his head-row plots, spending a busy hour in the cool of the twilight. His eyes were ashine and a cheerful humming proclaimed a happy worker, deeply in love with his work. And it was so, for was not the Red Knight scaling another wall in the grand assault? Already the aged gleaner had harvested a wealth of selected heads and the tub on the kitchen floor was the receptacle of several gallons of the astonishing brown-red kernels. There was a prophetic light on the old man's face as he plucked the wonderful heads. So deep was his self-communion that he was startled when a voice called for the second time:
"Mr. Pullar!"
The voice was powerful but suppressed, its tone familiar. The old man looked up in surprise.
Before him stood Rob McClure and his wife. With instinctive gentility he doffed his hat and bowed.
"Good-evening to you, friends!" was his cordial greeting.
"Thank you for your kindness, Edward Pullar," was McClure's slow reply. "I have ridden over to see you though you may not desire conversation with me. I would not blame you——"
Edward Pullar raised his hand.
"Hush! My friend!" he entreated gently, a brightness glowing in his eyes. "I understand all. Nick Ford has given me the tale without reserve. The past has been very dark for all of us; the expiation—costly. There are enigmas that remain unexplained but the explanation would merely satiate curiosity. It would not alter anything. We have forgotten the past. Life is new, sacredly new for Ned and me—since the storm. We want no confession, no ceaseless grieving, simply your dear friendship. We are looking ahead into the gloriously happy days. Give me your hands."