'I was i' this place afore the bluebells died, along with—Ed'ard.'
'Why d'you say the man's name like that? It's no better than other names.'
She had no reply for that, and they came in silence to the tormented may-tree where the horse was tied, his black mane and smooth back strown with faded, faintly coloured blossom.
Reddin lifted her on and swung into the saddle.
She leant against him, silent and passive, as with one arm round her he guided the horse down the difficult path.
A star shone through the trees, but it was not a friendly star. It was more like a stare than a tear.
When the rest of them sprang out like an army at the reveille, they were aloof and cold, and they rode above in an ironic disdain too terrible to be resented.
Reddin put the horse to a gallop. He wanted fierce motion to still the compunction that Hazel's quiet crying brought.
A sense of immanent grief was on her, grey loneliness and fear of the future. He tried to comfort her.
'Dunna say ought!' she sobbed. 'You canna run the words o'er your tongue comfortable like Ed'ard can!'