The afternoon came, grew to its height, and waned as I lay, back to sea and face to cliff, thinking now of all that had passed, now of what was before me, sparing a moment's fitful sorrow for the poor wretch who lay dead there by the cottage door, but returning always in resentful mood to my lost guinea and Barbara's sore lack of courtesy. If she needed me, I was ready; but heaven forbid that I should face fresh rebuffs by seeking her! I would do my duty to her and redeem my pledge. More could not now be looked for, nay, by no possibility could be welcome; to keep away from her was to please her best. It was well, for in that her mind jumped with mine. In two hours now we could set out for Dover. "Simon, I'm hungry." The voice came from behind my shoulder, a yard or two away, a voice very meek and piteous, eloquent of an exhaustion and a weakness so great that, had they been real, she must have fallen by me, not stood upright on her feet. Against such stratagems I would be iron. I paid no heed, but lay like a log. "Simon, I'm very thirsty too." Slowly I gathered myself up and, standing, bowed. "There's a fragment of the pasty," said I; "but the jug is empty." I did not look in her face and I knew she did not look in mine. "I can't eat without drinking," she murmured. "I have nothing with which to buy liquor, and there's nowhere to buy it." "But water, Simon? Ah, but I mustn't trouble you." "I'll go to the cottage and seek some." "But that's dangerous." "You shall come to no hurt." "But you?" "Indeed I need a draught for myself. I should have gone after one in any case." There was a pause, then Barbara said: "I don't want it. My thirst has passed away." "Will you take the pasty?" "No, my hunger is gone too." I bowed again. We stood in silence for a moment. "I'll walk a little," said Barbara. "At your pleasure," said I. "But pray don't go far, there may be danger."