“Where?”
“I thought of those thick alders by Wander brook—a mile of them. If you lie close to the ground, and they have not dogs—”
“Dogs!”
“If search sweeps over, not finding, then to-night a wagon filled with straw will cross Wander brook at the old bridge, going Londonward. This is all that I can do. I do no more, by all the Saints!”
“Why,” she said, “I do not after all wish thee to burn beside me! Alders by Wander brook.”
He said, “Hark!” raising his hand.
They heard it, distant rout of voices. “Go!” he said. “Run! No time for love-parting! I must return to the Hall.”
“I wish no love-parting!” she answered. “That is dead. But farewell—farewell, Rob! Now you go to the Hall but I to Wander brook.”
He was listening. “They come louder!” When he turned his head, she was gone. He saw her brown dress beyond ash stem and bough; now she was deep in fern. He heard her movement, then silence. Still a brown gleam, then that vanished. He stood still, he put hands to face and drew a breath deep and long, then turning he walked rapidly through the forest to his park and his hall. The ruined farm he had already visited. David and Margery had their word. “A serving-wench? Yes, they had had one—Joan. Country from toward Minchester. But she was gone—a se’ennight since.” Somerville had climbed the steps into the loft room. Little was here of Joan or Morgen Fay. But what was, he himself had carried and given to hearth flame. There was one thing, a rose tree in a great crock, and this most carefully he had destroyed.