With the ice of the new mood came a sense of the peril of his position. Did he swoon here from loss of blood—grow so weak that he could not get away—be found here when day came—. The scandal flared out in letters of fire before him. He saw the face of Master Clement, and the faces of other and more powerful men of the faction, religious and political, with which he was becoming strongly identified.... He must get away—get home—framing some story as he went. His horse was near—the streaming blood seemed less.
Joan stood like a dart, in her face blended relief and horror. They stared each at the other.
“Do you remember,” said Carthew in a hollow voice, “in the forest there, I said that love might turn to hate? Beware lest it has turned!”
“You may hate me,” said Joan. “You never loved me.”
He took his eyes from her and moving haltingly to the door opened it. His horse was close outside, fastened within the small enclosure. Through the dark oblong, by the light of the half-moon, she saw him mount. He gathered up the reins, he held also by the horse’s mane. His face looked back at her for a moment, a ghastly, an enemy’s face. Then there was only the mournful night and Heron’s cottage, thatch-roofed, sunk among blossoming fruit trees from which the raindrops dripped, dripped.
CHAPTER XV
NEXT DAY