"Hush! I thought--I heard--there in the meadow!"
He holds his breath and hearkens. Nothing to be heard or seen. Whatever it was, the storm and the darkness have engulfed it.
"Come down to the river's edge," he says, "our figures are so clearly defined up here."
She leads the way; he follows. But on the slippery woodwork she loses her footing. Then he catches her in his arms and carries her down to the river. Unresisting, she hangs upon his neck.
"How light you have got since that day," he says softly, while he lets her glide down, then raises her up.
"Oh, you would hardly recognize me if you saw me," she replies equally softly.
"I would give anything if only I could!" he says, and tries to draw away the shawl from about her face. A pale oval, two dark, round shadows in it where the eyes are--the darkness reveals no more.
"I feel like a blind man," he says, and his trembling hand glides over her forehead, down to her cheeks, as if by touch to distinguish the loved features. She resists no longer. Her head drops upon his shoulder.
"How much I wanted to say to you!" she whispers. "And now I no longer can think of anything--not of anything at all."
He twines his arms more closely around her. They stand there silent and motionless while the storm tugs and tears at them, and the rain beats down upon their heads.