She freed her hair from its red ribbon, and it fell in a shower about her face. All around her seemed hushed and awful. She shuddered again, and with a back ward hand drew down the sheets. Then she took a long, deep breath, like a sigh that is half a smile, and lay down to sleep. IX. Somewhere towards the dawn, in the vague shadow-land between a dream and the awakening, Kate thought she was startled by a handful of rice thrown at her carriage on her marriage morning. The rattle came again, and then she knew it was from gravel dashed at her bedroom window. As she recognised the sound, a voice came as through a cavern, crying, “Kate!” She was fully awake by this time. “Then it's to be Pete,” she thought. “It's bound to be Pete, it's like,” she told herself. “It's himself outside, anyway.” It was Pete indeed. He was standing in the thin darkness under the window, calling the girl's name out of the back of his throat, and whistling to her in a sort of whisper. Presently he heard a movement inside the room, and he said over his shoulder, “She's coming.” There was the click of a latch and the slithering of a sash, and then out through the little dark frame came a head like a picture, with a face all laughter, crowned by a cataract of streaming black hair, and rounded off at the throat by a shadowy hint of the white frills of a night-dress. “Kate,” said Pete again. She pretended to have come to the window merely to look out, and, like a true woman, she made a little start at the sound of his voice, and a little cry of dismay at the idea that he was so close beneath and had taken her unawares. Then she peered down into the gloom and said, in a tone of wondrous surprise, “It must be Pete, surely.” “And so it is, Kate,” said Pete, “and he couldn't take rest without spaking to you once again.” “Ah!” she said, looking back and covering her eyes, and thinking of Black Tom and the fairies. But suddenly the mischief of her sex came dancing into her blood, and she could not help but plague the lad. “Have you lost your way, Pete?” she asked, with an air of innocence. “Not my way, but myself, woman,” said Pete. “Lost yourself! Have the lad's wits gone moon-raking, I wonder? Are you witched then, Pete?” she inquired, with vast solemnity. “Aw, witched enough. Kate----” “Poor fellow!” sighed Kate. “Did she strike you unknown and sudden?” “Unknown it was, Kirry, and sudden, too. Listen, though----” “Aw dear, aw dear! Was it old Mrs. Cowley of the Curragh? Did she turn into a hare? Is it bitten you've been, Pete?” “Aw, yes, bitten enough. But, Kate----” “Then it was a dog, it's like. Is it flying from the water you are, Pete?” “No, but flying _to_ the water, woman. Kate, I say----” “Is it burning they're doing for it?” “Burning and freezing both. Will you hear me, though? I'm going away--hundreds and thousands of miles away.” Then from the window came a tone of great awe, uttered with face turned upward as if to the last remaining star.