Of that wild drive back through the night Peter saved but a blurred remembrance. Scarcely a word was spoken--there was nothing that could be said. After they had struck the open country, they went at a gallop most of the journey. Every now and then they drew up at a darkened inn. He climbed down from the box and hammered on a closed door. A window opened. A rapid explanation. Grumbling. Sleepy men appeared, only partly dressed, carrying lanterns. Horses were taken out and a fresh team harnessed. As the dawn came up, pale and haggard, he saw her face; it was hard-lipped and ashen. He would never forget it. Every year showed. The golden hair had broken loose; it was the only young thing left. She was no longer the golden woman; he drove that night beside the figure of repentance. Hills taken cruelly at a gallop! Cocks crowing! Unawakened towns! The waking country! He pieced her into his experience. What was it that women wanted? To be married and not to be married? To accept the flattery of being loved and not to return it? Riska, his Aunt Jehane, Glory, Cherry--all the women he had known--they passed before him. He tried to read their eyes. Their heads were bowed; all that he could learn of them was the pathetic frailty of their bodies. Marching through the meadows came Oxford, its spires indomitably pointed against the clouds. Now they were traveling the austere length of High Street. At Carfax they turned. On Folly Bridge they drew up. She had brought him back. He wanted to say something generous. “Lorie, he loves you. If he asks you again----” She nodded. “If he asks me,” she said brokenly. He walked along the edge of the river, golden in the early summer's morning, silver with mists curling from off it. He plunged in at a point opposite the Calvary barge. As he swam, he looked back. From the coach, high on the arch of the bridge, her eyes followed him. Just before he landed, she raised the whip; the horses strained forward. Running through the meadows, he came to the wall which went about Calvary, found a foothold and dropped safely over. After he had undressed, he hid his dripping clothing. He was in bed and sleeping soundly, when later in the morning his scout came to wake him. CHAPTER XLIII--AN UNFINISHED POEM Strong sunlight streamed across the foot of his bed. Below, in the quad, he could hear the clatter of breakfast-dishes being cleared away. Fumbling beneath his pillow, he pulled out his watch. Ten o'clock! Time he dressed and got to work! Less than a fortnight till his Finals, and he'd lost a day already! A sound of running on the stairs! Someone was entering his outer room. “Hulloa! I'm still in bed. Who is it?”