I whistled. Calypso emerged from the night, and behind Calypso was the horse with its burden. An anxious look dawned in her face. “I am insulted,” says she and paused quickly.
“Edward!” she called, and put a hand to her bosom.
“Anne, darling!” cried the voice, “where are you? Come, child, ’tis late.”
The horse came to a stop before the door with the body on the saddle, bound to the crupper.
“What is it?” she cried in alarm, and suddenly she shrieked, recognizing what was there. “It is an omen—my wedding night!”
“Aye,” says I, “which be your bridegroom, he that calls or he that is silent? Call on him and he hears not.”
Peal after peal went up now from her, and the house was awake with alarm. I turned away, leaving her on the doorstep, and mounted the mare.
As I cantered off into the night I cast a glance behind me, and a group was gathered at the door, and in that group lay Mistress Anne fallen in a swoon, with the sleeping figure on the horse before her.