At length the evening came when Ian had to start. It was a fine bright night as the three made their way down the secret passage for the last time.
“How strange it has all been,” said Aline, “since we first discovered the secret room and this passage. What a different thing life means to me from what it did then!” She was leading the way carrying the wallet containing the food, while Audry carried a staff and a big heavy cloak.
“It has been a wonderful time for me,” said Ian, “and I can never realise to the full the marvellousness of my escape or your great kindness to me. I feel that God must have arranged it all, just because it is so strange. I seem to have every little incident written in undying characters in my mind, and I could recall almost every word of your conversations with me. Even if we never meet again, you will live with me always.”
“Oh, but you will come back and we shall meet again,” Audry interrupted, “you must not talk like that.”
“I hope that I shall,” he said, but the tone of his voice was so sad that no one spoke again till they came to the cave-room.
They lifted the stone and Ian climbed down first and then lifted the two through the opening. As he held Aline in his arms a great wave of feeling nearly overcame him altogether. For the moment he felt as though he could not put her down; it was like voluntarily parting with all that made life precious. He clasped her tightly to him for a moment and then he set her very gently on her feet. It was not too dark to see her face, and as he looked at it he realised that he had never seen it more sad and yet it had never looked more beautiful. The light was not bright enough to see the colour, but he could just discern something of its richness in the gleam of her thick long wavy hair, reaching far down below her waist. They all found it very difficult to speak and the children wished him a safe journey and a happy issue with very trembling voices.
“Think of me sometimes,” he said, “when I am gone, and pray for me. May God be with you and do more than I can ever ask in my feeble prayers.”
He kissed both the children, and holding Aline’s little face in both his hands he said,—“Oh, if I could only do something for you, little one, I could be happy, no matter what it cost. Somehow I feel that we shall never meet again in spite of what Audry says; still that does not make it impossible for me to do something for you. Remember that I shall always be living in the hope that some such chance may come and that the greatest pleasure you can give me is to let me use myself in your service. But now I must go.” He kissed her once again and then took the cloak, staff and wallet and strode into the darkness; which soon closed round him and hid him from their sight.
After he had gone a hundred yards or so across the moor, he paused; it was almost more than he could bear; so he knelt down and prayed that all good things might come to Aline and, if it were not selfish to ask it, that it might be given to him to suffer on her behalf,—some pain, some sacrifice, some physical or mental anguish, that might directly or indirectly add to her joy or lessen her sorrow. After this he felt strengthened and even elated at the thought of the suffering that he hoped would come. It was not enough to give her happiness, the more it would cost him, the more he would welcome it.