‘My tent is pitched there,’ was the answer.
‘Good-bye, my brother,’ said Carinthia.
Chillon folded his arms round her. ‘God bless you, dear love. Let me see you soon.’ He murmured:
‘You can protect yourself.’
‘Fear nothing for me, dearest.’
She kissed her brother’s cheek. The strain of her spread fingers on his shoulder signified no dread at her being left behind.
Strangers observing their embrace would have vowed that the pair were brother and sister, and of a notable stock.
‘I will walk with you to Croridge again when you send word you are willing to go; and so, good-bye, Owain,’ she said.
She gave her hand; frankly she pressed the Welshman’s, he not a whit behind her in frankness.
Fleetwood had a skimming sense of a drop upon a funny, whirly world. He kept from giddiness, though the whirl had lasted since he beheld the form of a wild forest girl, dancing, as it struck him now, over an abyss, on the plumed shoot of a stumpy tree.