Of a sudden Martin stopped breathing, every fiber of him tense and strained. It was not the rustling of the bracken that he had heard. The sound grew louder, less smothered, as though it was too bitter and poignant to be stifled. Mellis was weeping—weeping as though the pain could not be borne.
Martin began to tremble. All his blood seemed to be rising to his throat.
Then he uttered a strange, sharp cry, and went blindly through the darkness.
“Mellis!”
He was on his knees beside her. She was lying on her face, her arms spread out.
“Mellis, I can’t bear it. Oh! my love!”
She twisted around, threw her arms around him, and cried:
“My man! My most dear!”
Chapter XLII
A brisk breeze blew from the sea over the marshes north of Gawdy Town, turning the willows that grew by the banks of the Rondel a soft gray, and making a great flutter among the aspen leaves. The reeds bowed and swayed in the dykes. The purple shadows of the clouds raced over the marshland meadows where the red cattle stood knee-deep in the lush grass. Gawdy Town itself spread its ruddy roofs to the evening sunlight, and flashed its vanes and flèches against a summer sky.