I well may wait a little.’ ‘Nay’ she cried
‘I am bound: you have my promise—in a year:
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?’
And Philip answer’d ‘I will bide my year.’
Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 440
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead;
Then fearing night and chill for Annie, rose
And sent his voice beneath him thro’ the wood.
Up came the children laden with their spoil; 445