THE ROAD TO THE WEST
After close on two hours' hard riding the fugitives drew rein. They had not spoken except once to confer on direction, Marion having simply stated that they were returning to Garth. Roger had pointed out the cross-country track where he thought it most likely they would escape detection.
They were on the edge of a spur of the moor, and from its advantage they wheeled to scan the countryside. There was no sign of life save the cattle and ponies grazing in the rough grass.
Soon Marion became aware that Roger had turned his gaze on herself. Fingering her crop, she sat tongue-tied and helpless. She had dreamed of this moment, when she and Roger would find themselves riding homeward, the shadow of the gaol left behind, and a long chapter in their lives to recall, each for the other. The moment having come, she could do nothing but stare at her horse's head and run her crop in and out of his mane.
Roger's hand fell abruptly on hers. Marion raised her eyes and dropped them again. The hand tightened.
'I cannot say it,' said Roger huskily. 'I cannot.'
Marion glanced at the pale, worn face.
'Don't try,' she faltered, her composure breaking before the look in his eyes. 'I know just what you would say.'
'No one can,' said Roger in a low voice, 'who has not been at the very edge of the grave.'
Marion's hand gently touched Roger's. Tears shone on her lashes.