"And I," Miriam called aloud, touching her breast—"I belong to nobody, though everything belongs to me."
In that announcement she outcried the stream, and through the comparative quietness that followed a hideous noise rumbled and shrieked upwards from the hollow. Bestial, but humanly inarticulate, it filled the air and ceased: there was the loud thud of furniture overthrown, a woman's voice, and silence. Then, while Miriam's legs shook and her back was chilled, she heard a sweet, clear whistling and the sound of feet. A minute later George Halkett issued from the trees.
"George!" she said, and half put out her hand.
He stood before her, his mouth still pursed for whistling, and jerked his head over his shoulder.
"You heard that?"
"Yes. Oh, yes!"
"I'm sorry."
"It's my fault for being here. Was it—what was it?"
His eyes narrowed and she could see a blue slit between lashes so thick that they seemed furred.
"My father. He's ill. I'm sorry you heard."