“It is a beautiful place,” she said; “and the thought of it is peace now.”
“Yes,” he said.
“It is going on, now,” she said, “under this same night; the water is going on under the bridge.”
“Ah, to be tied,” he cried, “lashed foot and hand!”
“Why did you land in our field?” she asked.
“The field is mixed up with my life; I have to go there. In a way, that field and house have been all my life. The sea has only been something to wrestle with: that is not enough.”
“What have the house and field been to you, then?” she asked.
“It would be mean not to share with my companion,” Sard said; “you are linked with the place too. It is all strange, and your being here at the end is almost the strangest: you, the owner of that place, and I, just the trespasser and worshipper. Fifteen years ago I was taken to a picnic there. I don’t believe in chance. But it seemed just chance that I went there. We didn’t know the people, but they wanted a boy to fill up a side at cricket. Anyhow, I went. Some people called Penga took me.
“But I was quite out of it. I was the youngest there. They had two elevens without me, and I didn’t know a soul there, except Dick Penga, and he had had the swot of bringing me and thought me a child, besides.
“There was a Spanish lady, a widow, there with her daughter, who was of my own age. She was out of it too.