"You are chill, dearest?" he murmured.
"Just a little."
"We're forgetting the late August night winds—"
"No—no—it's nothing—I'm just a wee bit afraid of an owl, that's all."
A dark figure slowly approached and stood with uncovered head.
"What is it, James?" the master asked.
"It's too late, sir, for you and the mistis to be out in dis air—it's chill an' fever time—"
"Thank you, James—we'll go in at once."
When the faithful footfall had died away, the lover lifted his bride in his arms and carried her in, while she softly laughed and clung to his strong young shoulders.
It came with swift, sure tread, the silent white figure of the Pestilence that walks in Tropic Splendor.