There was near a league to go. Her pace slowed, she stood drawing hard breath, then went on again but not running. None were after her; she heard none after her. Here clung darkness, or cold, mysterious, shifting light. The air hung cool, very still, with faint fragrances. Her mind had wings, great dark ones, and now it beat in the passages and cells of Silver Cross, and now at the ruined farm, and now about and through Somerville Hall. It went also to Middle Forest and into Montjoy’s castle. Back it beat to the ruined farm, and Somerville to-morrow, in this wood, and then London road. London road! No doubt now. London road! Her mind sought London town, but that hung distasted, weary, drear and threatening. “O Morgen, why so? Will there not be Montjoys and Somervilles there--aye, greater ones. Mayhap princely ones!” But she hated London road and London town. “Oh, what are the hands that hold me here--cannot hold but would hold!” To-morrow, to-morrow, next day at latest, London road, London road! Going through the dark wood, she no longer felt panic. Perhaps it was so and perhaps it was not so that all Silver Cross was roused, those who knew and those who did not know. She knew that not twenty there did know; and at first she had felt the hands of all those others, the guiltless, upon her, against her. Almost she had felt their stoning. But those who knew were foxes and serpents,--cunning, cunning! They would provide safety for themselves and so for her, too, bound in the same bundle with them. “With the foxes and serpents,” she thought. Now she walked steadily, about her mighty trees, overhead the moon, in her ears the million small forest tongues, in her nostril the smell of fern. The night did not terrify her, she was warm in her frieze cloak. She saw the ruined farm sunk in dimness and sleep. By the outside stair she would creep up to her room, Joan the serving-woman, so negligible a soul. To-morrow would come Somerville. Morgen Fay, so negligible a soul. A voice went through her. “Who neglecteth? Soul, soul, who neglecteth?” She would not answer. She ran again under the moon, upon the forest path. Forest broke away. The ruined farm all in the moonlight and Margery and David sleeping like the long dead. The long dead--the long dead. “Am I the long dead?” She crept up the stair and as she did so the cock was crowing. Here was loft chamber, here straw bed cleanly covered. Frieze cloak dropped, her body stood in moonlight, dressed in the colours and the fashion of the great picture. Morgen Fay took off the raiment and folded it and laid it upon the bench under the window. “As soon as it is light I will burn it.” She felt fatigue, overpowering, extreme, and dropped upon the bed and drew over her the cover and hid her face from the moonlight in her arms, in her hair.