“Not yet—” said Achilles, “not yet—but we shall take the car there. You need not walk any more.”
She was very quiet and he leaned toward her anxiously. “You are not tired?” he asked.
“No—Mr. Achilles—I don’t think—I’m tired—” She held the words slowly. “I just thought we’d go on forever, walking like this—” She looked up and swept her small hand toward the stars. “I thought it was a dream—” she said softly—“Like the other dreams!” He felt a little, quick throb run through her, and he bent again and his fingers touched her cheek.
“I am not crying, Mr. Achilles,” she said firmly, “I only just—” There was a little, choking sound and her face had buried itself in his sleeve.
And Achilles bent to her with tender gesture. Then he lifted his head and listened. There was another sound, on the plain, mingling with the sobs that swept across the child’s frame.
He touched her quietly. “Someone is coming,” he said.
She lifted her face, holding her breath with quick lip.
The sound creaked to them, and muffled itself, and spread across the plain, and came again in irregular rhythm that grew to the slow beat of hoofs coming upon the road.
Achilles listened back to the sound and waited a minute. Then he covered the child, as before, with his coat and turned back, walking along the road to meet the sound. It creaked toward him and loomed through the light of the stars—a great market wagon loaded with produce—the driver leaning forward on the seat with loose rein, half asleep. Suddenly he lifted his head and tightened rein, peering forward through the dark at the figure down there in the road. Achilles held his way.
“Hello!” said the man sharply.