And as she drew into the black shadow of the trees on the hill, she heard footsteps and a voice behind her:
“Mabin! Mabin! Don’t be frightened. Where has she gone, dear? Where has she gone?”
Panting, breathless, not halting a moment as she ran, Mabin whispered, in a low voice which thrilled him:
“Down the hill—this way. Oh, Rudolph! You don’t think she’s gone to the sea, do you?”
“Don’t let us think about it, dear. If anything has happened to her, it is the fault of that old woman’s bitter tongue.”
“Oh, don’t let us talk. Let us hurry on. We may be in time yet.”
“We may.”
There was little hope in his tone. At the bottom of the road he, slightly in front, hesitated.
“To the left—to the high part of the cliff, by the sea-mark,” directed Mabin briefly. “Don’t wait for me. I am getting lame again. Run on alone.”
So Rudolph ran. And, behind the fir-plantation a little further on, he disappeared from her sight.