"I am going to carry you home," I said.
"Home! Home where?"
"Home to Morton Hall."
"Can you?" she said. "It is a long way.
"Can I?" I said with a laugh.
She looked at me as though she gloried in my strength, and was glad she could trust herself to me.
I carried her down the silent church; but no longer did my lantern throw weird shadows on the floor; no longer were the pews filled with forbidding spectres. For now the church was full of bright rejoicing angels.
When I came to the church door, and saw the heavy clanging keys, I wondered what I was to do with them.
The old sexton would lose his senses if he were to see the precious burden I bore. I locked the great door and took her out into the silent night.
I no longer needed the lantern; the light of the moon was clear and bright. It was indeed a relief. To me, after being immured in the church, the clear, pure air was welcome beyond expression. And if it was welcome to me, it was a thousand times more so to Ruth. I do not think she fully realised from what she had escaped until now. She gave a cry of gladness, such as a bird gives when freed from a cage. Behind her were suspense, cruelty, doubt, despair, death and the grave; before her—ah, what?