"What—was his face like? Did you—see him near?"
"Quite near. I stood on the street. I followed. He did not see me. He saw nothing."
The sobbing broke forth again.
"Did—did his eyes look as if he had been crying? He did cry—he did!"
The Head of the House of Coombe showed no muscular facial sign of emotion and stood stiffly still. But what was this which leaped scalding to his glazed eyes and felt hot?
"Yes," he answered huskily. "I saw—even as he marched past—that his eyes were heavy and had circles round them. There were other eyes like his—some were boys' eyes and some were the eyes of men. They held their heads up—but they had all said 'Good-bye'—as he had."
The Wood echoed to a sound which was a heart-wrung wail and she dropped forward on the moss again and lay there.
"He said, 'Oh, let us cry—together—together! Oh little—lovely love'!"
She who would have borne torment rather than betray the secret of the dream, now that it could no longer be a secret lay reft of all but memories and the wild longing to hold to her breast some shred which was her own. He let her wail, but when her wailing ceased helplessly he bent over her.
"Listen to me," he said. "If Donal were here he would tell you to listen. You are a child. You are too young to know what has come upon you—both."