And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming they
Would choose that fearful path for flight.
The sun
Shone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked[400]
With gems. The storm had gone; the night had gone,
And she had gone, the star[401] of Mark Lysle’s home,
Gone—to return no more.
The dark night through,
Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliff
Had watched and listened for his promised bride;