She was full of thought over these sayings. What had he been about when he mated with a woman of this sort? “A man don't live like that,” had been Nevile's explanation of part of his own history. Was this the meaning of her friend's vagary? Would he tell her? She would never ask him, but would give worlds to know. Presently, and quite suddenly, as they pushed their way, now in silence broken only by Chevenix's cheerful whistling, upon that backbone of a broad hill-country--quite suddenly her heart leaped, and then stood fast. “Look, look!” she said softly. “There's Jack, close to us!” In a sheltered hollow some hundred feet below the level at which they were, a hooded figure in pure white was startlingly splashed upon the grey-brown of the dry hills. The peak of a cowl shot straight above his head, and the curtains of it covered his face. He sat, squatting upon the turf, with a lifted hand admonishing. About him, with cocked ears, and quick side-glances, were some six or seven hares, some reared upon their haunches, some, with sleek heads, intent upon the herbage, one lopping here and there in quest, but none out of range of a quick hand. Above his head, high in the blue, birds were wheeling, now up, now down. Peewits tumbling heavily, pigeons with beating wings, sailing jackdaws--higher yet, serene in rarity, a brown kestrel oared the sky. Sanchia's soft eyes gleamed with wet. “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. “Queen Mab!” he said. “You!” and held out both his hands. It was evident that neither of them could speak. She rose; but there was no touching of the hands. “And Peachblossom, attendant sprite,” cried the resourceful Chevenix, following him up. “Don't forget him.”