"Will I wish you well, Richard? Yes, I will wish you well. Do not go at dawn." He looked at her. "Do you ask me to wait?" "Yes, I ask you. Wait till--till later in the morning. It is so sad to say good-bye." "I will wait then." The light from the hall lay unbroken on the doorstep. Molly and Unity had disappeared. A little in yellow lamplight, chiefly in silver moonlight the porch lay deserted and quiet before the murmuring oaks, above the fair downward sweep of grass and flowers. "It is long," said Cleave, "since I have been here. The day after the tournament--" "Yes." He came nearer. "Judith, was it so hard to forgive--that tournament? You had both crowns, after all." "I do not know," said Judith, "what you mean." "Do you remember--do you remember last Christmas when, going to Lauderdale, I passed you on your way to Silver Hill?" "Yes, I remember." "I was on my way to Lauderdale, not to see Fauquier, but to see you. I wished to ask you a question--I wished to make certain. And then you passed me going to Silver Hill, and I said, 'It is certainly so.' I have believed it to be so. I believe it now. And yet I ask you to-night--Judith--" "You ask me what?" said Judith. "Here is Mr. Stafford." Maury Stafford came into the silver space before the house, glanced upward, and mounted the steps. "I walked as far as the gate with Breckinridge. He tells me, Mr. Cleave, that he is of your Company of Volunteers." "Yes." "I shall turn my face toward the sea to-morrow. Heigho! War is folly at the best. And you?--" "I leave Greenwood in the morning." The other, leaning against a pillar, drew toward him a branch of climbing rose. The light from the hall struck against him. He always achieved the looking as though he had stepped from out a master-canvas. To-night this was strongly so. "In the morning! You waste no time. Unfortunately I cannot get away for another twenty-four hours." He let the rose bough go and turned to Judith. His voice when he spoke to her became at once low and musical. There was light enough to see the flush in his cheek, the ardour in his eye. "'Unfortunately!' What a word to use in leaving Greenwood! No! For me most fortunately I must wait another four and twenty hours." "Greenwood," said Judith, "will be lonely without old friends." As she spoke, she moved toward the house door. In passing a great porch chair her dress caught on the twisted wood. Both men started forward, but Stafford was much the nearer to her. Released, she thanked him with grave kindness, went on to the doorway, and there turned, standing a moment in her drapery of dim blue, in the two lights. She had about her a long scarf of black lace, and now she drew it closer, holding it beneath her chin with a hand slender, fine, and strong. "Good-night," she said. "It is not long to morning, now. Good-night, Mr. Stafford. Good-night, Richard."