“Where?”
“Not at Holy Cross, no, it is too near. There is the Hermit’s Rock in the yew valley—above Thorney Chapel—”
Jeffray had straightened up with the air of a man ready to march with a forlorn hope.
“I know it,” he said.
“It is a wild place. I can fool Dan. I will be patient.”
She seemed to be plotting it all with all the passionate and ready ardor of her heart. To Jeffray even this perilous and solemn complicity was very sweet. His reason appeared to have been heated to white heat and cooled again like a tempered sword to serve him.
She looked at him dearly, as though he held all the warmth and light that life could give.
“I will ride to the yew valley every evening—till—”
“Till?”
“You can come.”