"Please don't talk to me." "But I want you to come in here." "In there! Impossible!" "But do, Margaret; it is quite empty; only like a room. The ground inside is as dry as a floor, and the roof will shelter you from the night air, and, perhaps, save you from illness." "I couldn't--no; please." "Well, just come and look." "I won't--there!" quite decidedly. "Margaret!" He took her arm; notwithstanding her declaration, she rose and followed him. She did not resent his making her do it in that wild and desolate place; had he tried to compel her in civilisation, he would have failed. Once inside it, the Cave was not at all dreadful; she could sit upright, and, as he said, it was merely a chamber, open on one side. He then went to fetch the hurdles to make her a rough couch--it was with some thought of this that he had not burned them--knowing anything between the sleeper and the bare ground will prevent stiffness or chill. He saw that the moon had illuminated a valley on the right hand, and walked to the edge, thinking that perhaps a cottage might be in the hollow. There was nothing, but this caused him to be a little longer gone. Now Margaret was just in that state between waking and sleeping when shadows take shape and the silence speaks, nor could she forget that the Cave had once been a tomb. She looked out and involuntarily uttered a cry. Among the boulders stood a shapeless whiteness--a form rather than a thing, in the midst of the circle. She covered her face with her hands. Geoffrey returning heard the cry, and came running. "What! How fortunate!" he exclaimed. She looked again--it was the grey, Geoffrey's horse; in her nervous dread she had not recognised it in the shadow. "This is fortunate," he said, ignoring her alarm. "The poor fellow must have hobbled after us--perhaps not so very far, as we went round in a circle. Why, this must have been what we heard--the heavy steps, don't you remember? I can make a couch now,"--unstrapping the rug, and removing the saddle, and also from Kitty. Then he took the thatched hurdle, and placed it on the floor of the Cave, straw uppermost. It was perfectly clean; the straw bleached white by the wind of the hills. The saddles made a rude support for her shoulders. She stood up, and he wound the rug--which was a large one--about her till she was swathed in it, and a kind of hood came round her head. She reclined upon the hurdle, leaning against the saddles; and lastly, at his wish, adjusted the handkerchief lightly over her face, so that she might breathe easily, and yet so as to keep the night air away. Then he placed the second hurdle, which was not thatched, across the open side of the Cave, partly closing it like a door, but not too completely. "Why, I am quite comfortable," she said. "Only it is too warm." "That is a good fault; good-night." "Good-night." A long pause. "Geoffrey--where are you?" "Sitting by the door of your chamber." "You have been very kind."