His long-drawn breath was a silent prayer: "_Let me never forget the spice of this room, the morning light on her dark curled hair._" Then he groaned. With a stride he caught her warm curved body to him. In her hands the last bouquet was crushed between them, filling his nostrils with fragrance of thyme and mint and coriander leaves. At last he held her away, his hands tight on her shoulders, bare and brown in the brief sundress. "There are men coming for me," he said. "I've got to run and hide. They'll search, and wait, but eventually they'll leave. Then I'll come back. But we'll have to go away from here. We'll have to start again under other names, somewhere else." Her anxious eyes searched his face. "Jim, what have you done?" "Done? Why, I've done nothing," he said. And that was true. It was not what he had done. It was what he _was_. "I'll go with you, Darling. We'll hide together." He shook his head. "It's not you they want. I'll have a better chance alone." He lifted the basket of herbs. "When they come tell them I've just gone to the market." "But where _will_ you go?" "Out to the hills. I'll come back when they're gone." He kissed her quickly, and went out knowing she was standing at the back door threshold, straining to see him till he could no longer be seen.... There was a swift brook in the woods beyond his cultivated acres. Into it he scattered the herbs to be dispersed by the dancing water. The basket he broke in his strong brown hands and sent the pieces after the flowers. Then he took off his shoes, cuffed his pants to his knees and waded across the brook to the other side. Pine nettles and small twigs gave under his stride. He never felt the pain of angled stones where he trod. He walked a long time, without stopping, and his breath did not become labored though his path was always upward. When he reached the clear crest of the hill he looked down to the patchwork valley where he lived. He saw his house, a green-topped miniature fashioned like a jewel in the pastoral setting. But the flaw in the jewel was the ominous helicar at the gate of the house. He sat in the tall grass, pulling his knees up to his chest. He clasped his hands about his legs, and prepared himself for the long vigil ahead. The sky became colored with sunset tints. He saw all the beauty without lifting his head. Cool breezes of dusk blew upon him. The sky became darker; the moon increased in brilliance. In the moonlight the metal car was silvered. During all the hours he had watched not one figure had emerged from the house. In a waiting game they were persistent and tireless. He rose at last, and stretched. He saw his hands before him, taught and strong, finely formed. On impulse he rubbed his chin, touched his cheek. How smooth and hard the flesh, how bronzed his powerful body. Suddenly he raised himself, stretching as high as he could, feeling the pull of well coordinated muscles. He smiled almost joyfully. His was a body to prize.