‘Lovers too,’ said Sybert. ‘Poor devil! I suppose he thinks the world is full of lovers outside his monastery walls. There,’ he added, ‘is a man who is living for an idea.’
‘And is beginning to suspect that it is the wrong one.’
He shot her a quick glance of comprehension. ‘Ah, there’s the rub,’ he returned, a trifle soberly—‘when you begin to suspect your idea’s the wrong one.’
They rode on down the hill into the darkening valley. They were going the straight way home now, and the horses knew it. They were still in the hills when the twilight faded, and a young moon, just beyond the crescent, took its place, riding high in a sky scattered thick with flying clouds. It was a wild, wet, windy night, though on the lower levels the roads were fairly dry: the storm had evidently wasted its fury on the heights.
It was too fast a pace to admit much talking, and they both contented themselves with their thoughts. Only once did Marcia break the silence.
‘I feel as if we were carrying the good news from Ghent to Aix!’
Sybert laughed and quoted softly:—
‘Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace—