Sir Charles flung himself at her feet, and, taking possession of her hands, covered them with kisses. A voice passed the window, singing through the night:—
"Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow,
And shake the green leaves from the tree;
O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am weary."
"Margery again?" said Sir Charles, rising.
"Yes," said Patricia, with a troubled voice.
The voice began the stanza again:—
"Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow,
And shake the green leaves from the tree?"
"What is the matter?" cried Sir Charles in alarm.
Patricia stared at him with wide, unseeing eyes. "Martinmas wind," she said in a low, clear, even voice. "Martinmas wind! The leaves drift in clouds, yellow and red, red like blood. Look at the river flowing in the sunshine! And the tall gray crags! Ah!" and she put her hands before her face.
"What is it?" cried her suitor. "What is the matter? You are ill!"
She dropped her hands. "I am well now," she said tremulously. "I do not know what it was. I had a vision—" she broke into wild laughter.