"Why, John, whatever are you doing down here? Lucky we met. I can give you an arm up-over. 'Tis a fierce night, seemingly."
Through the wild weather they passed, presently breasted White Hill, and bent to the tremendous stroke of the wind. Fierce thin rain drove across the semi-darkness, and where a rack of cloud was torn wildly into tatters, the hunter's moon seemed to plough and plunge upon her way, through the stormy seas of the sky. The wind whistled, but the heath was wet, and the dead heather did not utter the musical, tinkling note that the east wind's besom rings from it.
Mr. Prout was very silent.
"Be I travelling too fast for you?" she asked him.
"No, no," he answered.
"I'll ax you not to tell Dan that I went to see the master to-night," she said.
He did not reply.
"Dan don't understand him like you and me do," she continued.
"For God's sake don't talk," he begged. "There's a cruel lot on my mind."
"And on mine, for that matter. I'm a wicked, joyful woman, John Prout!"