"Saint Francis and the hares! Oh,
dearest, have I never known you?"
"What a chance for a rifleman!" said Chevenix. "That beats the cocks."
They stood intent for a while, not daring to disturb the mystery enacting.
Chevenix whispered, "He's giving 'em church, to-day being Sunday," while
Sanchia, breathless, said, "Hush! hush!" and felt the tears fret a way
down her cheeks. Presently she put both hands to her breast and fell upon
her knees. Chevenix, not insensible to her emotion, lit a pipe. Thus he
broke the spell.
"Go to him, please. Tell him that I'm here," she bade him, and then turned
away and sat waiting upon a clump of heather. She sat, as not daring to
look up, until she heard his soft tread on the turf. Then she lifted to
him her wet and rueful eyes.
His long strides brought him close in a second. He was changed. Leaner,
browner, older than she had known him. And he wore a strange Eastern
garment, a hooded white robe, short-sleeved and buttonless, made of coarse
woollen cloth. He had thrown the hood back, and it sat upon his shoulders
like a huge rolling collar. Yes, he was changed; there was mystery upon
him, which sat broodingly on his brows. But his eyes were the same--bright
as a bird's, frosty-kind as a spring morning which stings while it kisses
you.
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