She made a lovely little murmuring against his shoulder, and he laughed.
“That’s my lass. Now let’s talk.—I like your parson, Cis. Why, you’ve never asked me how I got along with him yet!...”
At ten o’clock he went out again, and met Crutchie of Fluett at the appointed place. He was back by eleven.
“Is it time to push on?” she asked.
“No, dear,” he replied quietly; “I’ve brought food for another day here.”
“Oh!...” she cried, tortured with apprehension; “what is it?”
“Ssh! It makes no difference. I know ways they wouldn’t find in a year. It’s ten to one they’re mostly town men. Come and lie down, and trust your husband. Come....”
It was long before she had sobbed herself to sleep in his arms, and he, his own brain busily working, heard her murmuring in her sleep from time to time through the night.
They awoke at seven o’clock, and he passed to the opening. As it had happened, seven o’clock was not a minute too early for them to have awakened. A fresh morning breeze stirred, and the ridge they had passed showed through a sunny haze, shot with gold and grey and tender purple. Down the hillside moved slowly a party of redcoats, and, their heads visible from time to time and again hidden in the heather, four dogs tugged at their leashes.
“Why don’t the fools loose ’em?” Monjoy muttered grimly. “Ay, they’re town-bred.—Come, Cis, we’ll not stay for breakfast.”