When he had helped her from the saddle, he would have remounted and ridden at once to Corbyknowe, but feared leaving her. She shut herself in her room till she could bear her own company no longer, and then went to the drawing-room, where Francis read to her, and played several games of backgammon with her. Soon after dinner she retired, saying her ride had wearied her; and the moment Francis knew she was in bed, he got his horse, and galloped to the Knowe. CHAPTER XLIII THE CORONATION When he arrived, there was no light in the house: all had gone to rest. Unwilling to disturb the father and mother, he rode quietly to the back of the house, where Kirsty’s room looked on the garden. He called her softly. In a moment she peeped out, then opened her window. ‘Cud ye come doon a minute, Kirsty?’ said Francis. ‘I’ll be wi’ ye in less time,’ she replied; and he had hardly more than dismounted, when she was by his side. He told her what had passed between him and his mother since she left them. ‘It’s a rael bonny nicht!’ said Kirsty, ‘and we’ll jist tak oor time to turn the thing ower--that is, gien ye bena tired, Francie. Come, we’ll put the beastie up first.’ She led the horse into the dark stable, took his bridle off, put a halter on him, slackened his girths, and gave him a feed of corn--all in the dark; which things done, she and her lover set out for the Horn. The whole night seemed thinking of the day that was gone. All doing seemed at an end, yea God himself to be resting and thinking. The peace of it sank into their bosoms, and filled them so, that they walked a long way without speaking. There was no wind, and no light but the starlight. The air was like the clear dark inside some diamonds. The only sound that broke the stillness as they went was the voice of Kirsty, sweet and low--and it was as if the dim starry vault thought, rather than she uttered, the words she quoted:-- ‘Summer Night, come from God, On your beauty, I see, A still wave has flowed Of Eternity!’ At a certain spot on the ridge of the Horn, Francis stopped. ‘This is whaur ye left me this time last year, Kirsty,’ he said; ‘--left me wi’ my Maker to mak a man o’ me. It was ’maist makin me ower again!’ There was a low stone just visible among the heather; Kirsty seated herself upon it. Francis threw himself among the heather, and lay looking up in her face. ‘That mother o’ yours is ’maist ower muckle for ye, Francie!’ said Kirsty. ‘It’s no aften, Kirsty, ye tell me what I ken as weel ’s yersel!’ returned Francis. ‘Weel, Francie, ye maun tell _me_ something the night!--Gien it wudna mismuve ye, I wad fain ken hoo ye wan throu that day we pairtit here.’ Without a moment’s hesitation, Francis began the tale--giving her to know, however, that in what took place there was much he did not understand so as to tell it again. When he made an end, Kirsty rose and said, ‘Wad ye please to sit upo’ that stane, Francie!’