“You ain’t going to sit here and make the horse drag you all the way up this tremendous hill, be you?” “No, uncle dear; I was only waiting for you to draw up that I might jump out. Do you see the moon coming up behind the trees, shining through them, like a good thought in the midst of dark imaginings?” “Dang the moon and your imaginings! Get out.” “I was thinking of something my book says,” apologised Kate, descending to the road. “Your book? What do you mean?” “I mean that which the schoolmaster gave me, which I have read and read, and in which I always find something new, and always am sure of something true.” “What does the book say?” “I learned it by heart— ‘Within the soul a faculty abides, That with interpositions’— That means things which come between. He explained that to me. I cannot always make out what is said till it is explained; but when it is, then the full truth and loveliness rises and shines into me like the moon when it has got over the hills and the woods.” “Go on.” “‘A faculty abides, That with interpositions, which would hide And darken, so can deal that they become Contingencies of pomp, and serve to exalt Her native brightness.’ I did not understand what contingencies meant, but he told me, and now all is quite plain as it is quite true. And it goes on— ‘As the ample moon Rising behind a thick and lofty grove, Burns like an unconsuming fire, light In the green trees’”— “Cease this foolery,” said Pasco impatiently. He was fumbling in his pocket for his clasp-knife, and was opening it. “Do look, uncle dear!” exclaimed Kate, turning to observe the moon as it mounted over the rich Buckland Woods on the farther bank of the Dart. “Halt,” shouted Pasco to the horse. They had reached an eminence. The girl stood wrapped in delight, with the silver shield of the moon before her, casting its glorious light over her face and folded hands. Pasco had his knife out. She heard the click, as the spring nipped the blade firmly, but did not turn to see what occasioned the sound. “The moon has come up out of the trees just as he said—I mean the poet—like a power in the heart and soul that has been entangled in all kinds of dark and twisted matters of every day. Oh, uncle, what is that?” Pasco drew back. A white dog—a mongrel, short-haired lurcher—crossed the road. Simultaneously a whistle was heard, and this was answered by another in the distance. “There are poachers about,” said Pepperill. He shut his knife, pocketed it, and called Kate to get into the trap. He was not going to halt to see a darned moon rise, when all kinds of vagabonds were about, and there was no safety for honest men.