The theory brought re-assurance. It excused us. We were not responsible. Then my mind fled back to my mother. She and my father had had these same thoughts as they had wandered side by side through these same fields and hedges. Why had I been brought back to the country of their courting to pass through their ordeal? Night was coming down, covering up landmarks. Darkness lent our actions modesty; they lost something of their sharpened meaning because we could not see ourselves acting. We lived unforgettable moments. Passing over narrow plank-bridges from meadow to meadow, we seemed to be traveling out of harsh reality into a world which was dream-created. She carried her hat in her hand. A soft wind played in her hair and loosened it in places. Her filmy white dress was all a-flutter. Mists began to rise from the marshlands, making us vague to one another. Traveling out of the east swam the harvest moon, nearing its fullness. “Vi,” I whispered, taking both her hands in mine, “you don’t know yourself--you’re splendid.” She laughed up into my eyes with elfin daring and abandon. “You’re the kind of woman for whom a man would willingly die.” “I ought to know that,” she mocked me, “for one tried.” “If this were five hundred years ago, do you know what I’d do to-night?” “It isn’t five hundred years ago--that makes all the difference. But, if it were, what would you do?” “I’d ride off with you.” “Oh, no, you wouldn’t.” “I should. I shouldn’t care what happened a week later. They might kill me like a robber. It wouldn’t matter--a week alone with you would have been worth it.” “But you wouldn’t,” she insisted; “you wouldn’t ride off with me.” “Shouldn’t I? And why?” She freed her hands from mine and placed her arms about my neck. The laughter had gone from her face. “Dear Dante, you wouldn’t do it, because _you_ are _you_.” The burning thoughts I had had died down. We wandered on in silence. Ahead of us a flickering light sprang up. Out of curiosity we went towards it. We found ourselves treading a rutted field-path which led back in the direction of the main road. Out of the mist grew up a clump of marsh-poplars. The light became taller and redder. We saw that it was the beginning of a camp-fire. Over the flames hung a stooping figure. “Good-evening.” The figure turned. It was that of a shriveled mummy of a woman--gray-haired, fantastic, bent, with face seamed and lined from exposure. A yellow shawl covered her head and shoulders. She held a burning twig in her hand, with which she was lighting her pipe. “Good-evening, mother. Good luck to you.” “Nowt o’ luck th’ day, lad,” she grumbled. “All the folks is in the fields at th’ ’arvest.”