“I am thirsty,” said she.
“Wait.”
He went to the well head. The windlass and chain were there rusty but practicable and a bucket lay amongst the grass. It was in good repair and had evidently been used recently. He lowered it and brought up some water. The water was clear diamond bright, and cold as ice. Having satisfied himself that it was drinkable he brought the bucket to Phyl and tilted it slightly whilst she drank. Then he put it by the door.
“Now I’ll go,” said he, “and I shan’t be long. Sure you won’t be afraid?”
“No,” she replied.
“You’re not angry with me?”
“No, I’m not angry.”
He bent down, took her hand and kissed it. She did not draw it away or show any sign of resentment; it was cold like the hand of a dead person.
He glanced back as he turned to go. She saw him stand at the doorway for a moment looking down along the grass road, his figure cut against the blaze of light outside, then the doorway was empty.
She was never to see him again.