"She has been biting her hands again," said Mrs. Penwarne. "Bessie, when she does that, pull out the token that hangs on her bosom and put it into her palm. She will sit and look at that by the hour. She must be broken of that trick."
Urith slowly stood up, with a ruffle of uneasiness on her dull face. She was conscious that she was being discussed, without exactly knowing what was said about her. Without a word of explanation, she went out, drawing Bessie with her, who would not let go her hand; and together, in silence, they passed through the court and into the lane.
Their heads were uncovered, and the wind was fresh and the sun shone brightly.
Urith walked leisurely along the lane, accompanied by Bessie Cleverdon, between the moorstone walls, thick-bedded with pink and white flowering saxifrage, and plumed with crimson foxgloves. She looked neither to right nor to left till she reached the moor-gate closing the lane, a gate set there to prevent the escape of the cattle from their upland pasturage. The gate was swung between two blocks of granite, in which sockets had been cut for the pivot of the gate to swing. Urith put forth her hand, thrust open the gate, and went on. It was characteristic of her condition that she threw it open only wide enough to allow herself to pass through, and Bess had to put forth her disengaged hand to check the gate from swinging back upon her. This was not due to rudeness on the part of Urith, but to the fact that Urith had forgotten that any one was with her.
On issuing forth on the open waste-land among the flowering heather and deep carmine, large-belled heath, the freedom, the fresh air seemed to revive Urith. A flicker of light passed over her darkened face, as though clouds had been lifted from a tor, and a little watery sunlight had played over its bleak surface. She turned her head to the west, whence blew the wind, and the air raised and tossed her dark hair. She stood still, with half-closed eyes, and nostrils distended, inhaling the exhilarating breeze, and enjoying its coolness as it trifled with her disordered locks.
Bessie had tried her with every subject that could distract her thoughts, in vain. She now struck on that which nearly affected her.
"Urith," she said, "I have heard that a battle is expected every day, and Anthony is in it. You will pray God to guard him in danger, will you not?"
"Anthony is dead. I killed him."
"No, dear Urith, he is not dead; he has joined the Duke of Monmouth."
"They told you so? They deceived you. I killed him."