As evening came on, Gil knelt beside the motionless figure upon the rough couch, in an agony of spirit, for, in spite of all his efforts, Mace seemed to be slipping away from him once again. He had fancied that the marble coldness that had struck a chill to his heart was not so marked, but he could not be sure; and at last, after trickling spirits between the white lips, and trying all he could to promote warmth, he knelt there waiting despairingly for the result. The sun had descended beyond the hills, turning the far west into one blaze of mellow golden glory; there was a faint twittering from the linnets and finches that hung about the bushes on the steep slopes and crags; and on one rugged old hawthorn, whose roots were thrust amongst the rifts and crags of the sandstone, a solitary thrush was singing his evening hymn. As Gil watched the face of her who lay there as rigid almost as if in death, it seemed to him that the soft sweet face that looked so smooth and young, and yet so old, was not so ashy white as a short time before; but directly after he realised the fact that the warm sunset flush was reflected into the store, and with a groan of despair he bent down and kissed the cold lips, and tried to breathe into the icy frame the vigour that throbbed and bounded in every nerve and vein of his own. But no: there was no movement, and at last, when Wat Kilby came softly up to say that one of the look-out men had encountered a Roehurst founder, and learned from him that Sir Mark and Mistress Anne were married and gone away, and that there was no pursuit, Gil bade him sternly begone, for he muttered: "The old wound is torn asunder, and I must seek for consolation with the dead." That she might live was Gil's prayer; that, if a victim were needed to offer up to death, his own poor worthless life might be taken. For it was agony indeed. He had begun to carry his load of misery with patient resignation, and had been content to revisit the spots where so many happy hours had been spent; but to come back to this was more than he could bear. The warm glow of the setting sun died out, to leave all ashy grey, and in mute despair Gil gazed down upon the white, rigid face before him. How cold she was, and how changed! Her silver hair, as it lay dishevelled around, formed a soft halo about the placid face, for the contraction of the brow had passed away, and, with the fading of the light, the drawn and pained expression of the eyelids had given place to a peaceful look that inspired him with awe. While though at times he fancied that she breathed, it was so faintly that he could not be sure, the icy coldness seemed to increase.