It was rocky; my horse slipped and I was obliged to walk him upward among stony places, where moss grew green and deep. And now, through a fringe of saplings, I caught a glimpse of the two elms and the tall pine between. "Penelope!" I cried. Then I saw her. She was standing as once she stood the first time ever I laid eyes on her. The sun shone in her face and made of her yellow hair a glory. And I saw her naked feet shining snow white, ankle deep in the wet grass. As though sun-dazzled she drew one hand swiftly across her eyes when I rode up, leaned over, and swung her up into my arms. And earth and sky and air became one vast and thrilling void through which no sound stirred save the wild beating of her heart and mine. Then, as from an infinite distance, came a thin cry, piercing our still paradise. Her arms loosened on my neck; we looked down as in a dream; and there were the little Romeyn children in the grass, naked in their shifts, and holding tightly to my stirrup. And now we saw light horsemen leading their mounts this way, and the poor Dominie's lady carried on a trooper's saddle, her bare foot clinging to the shortened stirrup. Other troopers lifted the children to their saddles; a great hubbub began below us along the Schenectady highway, where I now heard drums and the shrill marching music of an arriving regiment. I reached behind me, unstrapped my military mantle, clasped it around Penelope, swathed her body warmly, and linked up the chain. Then I touched Kaya with my left knee--she guiding left at such slight pressure--and we rode slowly over the sheep pasture and then along the sheep-walk, westward until we arrived at the bars. The bars were down and lay scattered over the grass. And thus we came quietly out into the Johnstown road. So still lay Penelope in my arms that I thought, at times, she was asleep; but ever, as I bent over her, her dark eyes unclosed, gazing up at me in tragic silence. Cautiously we advanced along the Johnstown road, Kaya cantering where the way was easy. We passed ruined houses, still smoking, but Penelope did not see them. And once I saw a dead man lying near a blackened cellar; and a dead hound near him. Long before we came in sight of Johnstown I could hear the distant quaver of the tocsin, where, on the fort, the iron bell rang ceaselessly its melancholy warning. And after a while I saw a spire above distant woods, and the setting sun brilliant on gilt weather-vanes. I bent over Penelope: "We arrive," I whispered. One little hand stole out and drew aside the collar of the cloak; and she turned her head and saw the roofs and chimneys shining red in the westering sun. "Jack," she said faintly. "I listen, beloved." "Douw Fonda is dead." "Hush! I know it, love." "Douw Fonda is with God since sunrise," she whispered. "Yes, I know.... And many others, too, Penelope." She shook her head vaguely, looking up at me all the while.