Markham took the bony fingers, his anxious gaze going past them toward the glow of the kitchen.
"And Yvonne?" he asked feverishly. "She is within?"
"She is here, yes, she is here—waiting for you."
He dropped his valise and strode past them eagerly. A pot simmered upon the fire, the table gave evidence of a recent repast, and a pile of dishes nearby stood mutely in evidence, but of Hermia there was no sign.
"Tiens!" Madame Guégou was muttering. "She was here but a moment ago. In the garden, perhaps—"
He dashed out of the rear door and down the graveled walk.
"Hermia!" he called, and then again, "Hermia!"
He reached the arbor just in time to see her speed across the lower end of the meadow and vanish into the trees. Hatless he leaped the low wall and followed, joy giving him wings, while the old couple wonderingly watched from the doorway. They were mad, these two. She had been waiting for him a month and now—she fled. Mad? But what was love but madness?
Markham sprang into the cover of the trees where he had seen her disappear and followed the path up the hill breathlessly. She would escape him now, even, when she had sent for him and he had come to her! She could not go far. The cover was thin. He would have called again, but he spared his breath, for he knew that she would not reply. He reached the end of the path and scanned the hill beyond. She could not have gone that way. He turned and plunged among the pine trees to his right where the woods were thicker. It was getting darker, but he saw her white skirt, gray in the shadows—saw it—lost it and found it again in the deep wood. He sprang forward over fallen trees, through brambles, over rocks, down the slope to the streamside and caught her behind a tree where she had hidden away from him.
"Hermia!" he cried. "Hermia, you witch! What a dance you've led me!
But I have you now—I have you—"