"I know every inch of the way; it's really quite safe," was the characteristic response.
"I shall feel more comfortable if you promise me. It is late for you to be returning alone, but I cannot come with you; I must go on to poor old Martha Hirst."
Millie's little laugh sounded sad. "You needn't be nervous about me on these moors at night."
"I don't think I need, or I would not let you go; but the moon is glorious. Good-night, and God bless you!"
She mounted, and rode swiftly away, past the church, along the little level bit of road that came before the steep dip over the mountain-side. The brief dialogue had decided Bert. Mr. Hall was not at leisure, and Millie was riding home late, alone. His place was to follow her. He had ascertained that there was a footpath which was far shorter than the windings she must go down with her cycle. If she were going to walk the steep bit, he thought he could overtake her when she dismounted to walk up the next ascent.
At the lower end of the steep hill, if you followed the road, you came to a stone bridge; and here the Ilba flowed more silently, and deep pools harboured many a fat trout. Trees arched over the road, growing by the water-side; and under them were inky shadows.
Melicent's lamp gleamed brightly, but not bright enough to show the wire fastened across the road. She was riding fast, with the impetus of the long hill just negotiated, and she checked herself with difficulty as the figure of a man detached itself from the shadow, waving his arms and crying, "Stop! Danger! You'll fall!"
"What is the matter?" she cried, putting on her brakes and just managing to alight "You!"—she stopped short, recognising Amurrica.
"We were gettin' ready for someone else," said Amurrica drily. "This is an unexpected pleasure. Are you ridin' alone?"
"You see that I am."