They hired a boat, rowed over to the far bank, and sat on the stern seat, side by side under the trees where the water was stained deep green by the high woods. If they talked, it was but a word of love now and then, or to draw each other's attention to a fish, a bird, a dragon-fly. What use making plans—for lovers the chief theme? Longing paralysed their brains. They could do nothing but press close to each other, their hands enlaced, their lips meeting now and then. On Noel's face was a strange fixed stillness, as if she were waiting—expecting! They ate their chocolates. The sun set, dew began to fall; the river changed, and grew whiter; the sky paled to the colour of an amethyst; shadows lengthened, dissolved slowly. It was past nine already; a water-rat came out, a white owl flew over the river, towards the Abbey. The moon had come up, but shed no light as yet. They saw no beauty in all this—too young, too passionate, too unhappy. Noel said: “When she's over those trees, Cyril, let's go. It'll be half dark.” They waited, watching the moon, which crept with infinite slowness up and up, brightening ever so little every minute. “Now!” said Noel. And Morland rowed across. They left the boat, and she led the way past an empty cottage, to a shed with a roof sloping up to the Abbey's low outer wall. “We can get over here,” she whispered. They clambered up, and over, to a piece of grassy courtyard, and passed on to an inner court, under the black shadow of the high walls. “What's the time?” said Noel. “Half-past ten.” “Already! Let's sit here in the dark, and watch for the moon.” They sat down close together. Noel's face still had on it that strange look of waiting; and Morland sat obedient, with his hand on her heart, and his own heart beating almost to suffocation. They sat, still as mice, and the moon crept up. It laid a first vague greyness on the high wall, which spread slowly down, and brightened till the lichen and the grasses up there were visible; then crept on, silvering the dark above their heads. Noel pulled his sleeve, and whispered: “See!” There came the white owl, soft as a snowflake, drifting across in that unearthly light, as if flying to the moon. And just then the top of the moon itself looked over the wall, a shaving of silvery gold. It grew, became a bright spread fan, then balanced there, full and round, the colour of pale honey. “Ours!” Noel whispered. 2