"He told me with a smile that his pride was dead—that he had cut its throat. But it was still alive, Steve—a living, quivering thing. And I saw him slay it before my eyes—kill it there between his, with his steady, pleasant smile.... Well, he meant me to understand him and what he had done.... And I understand.... And I understand your loyalty, now. And the dreadful fear which kept you silent.... But there is no need to be afraid any more." "Did he say so?" "Yes. He told me to tell you. He said you’d believe him because he had never lied to you." "I do believe him," she said. "I have never known him to lie to anybody." The light over the porch at Runner’s Rest glimmered through the trees. In a few moments they were at the door. "I’ll stable the horse," he said briefly. She was in the library when he returned from the barn. "The dawn is just breaking," she said. "It is wonderful out of doors. Do you hear the birds?" "Do you want to go to bed, Steve?" "No. Do you?" "Wait for me, then." She waited while he went to his room. The windows were open and the fresh, clean air of dawn carried the perfume of wet roses into the house. The wooded eastern hills were very dark against the dawn; silvery mist marked the river’s rushing course; thickets rang with bird songs. She walked to the porch. Under its silver-sheeted dew the lawn looked like a lake. Very far away across the valley a train was rushing northward. She could hear the faint vibration, the distant whistle. Then, from close by, the clear, sweet call of a meadow-lark mocked the unseen locomotive’s warning in exquisite parody. Cleland came down presently, freshened, dressed in flannels. "Steve," he said, "you’ve only a nightgown on under that cloak!" "It’s all right. I’m going to get soaked anyway, if we walk on the lawn." She laughed, drew off her slippers, flung them into the room behind her, then, with her lovely little naked feet she stepped ankle deep into the drenched grass, turned, tossed one corner of her red cloak over her shoulder, and looked back at him. Over the soaking lawn they wandered, his arm encircling her slender body, her hand covering his, holding it closer at her waist. The sky over the eastern hills was tinted with palest saffron now; birds sang everywhere. Down by the river cat-birds alternately mewed like sick kittens or warbled like thrushes; rose grosbeaks filled the dawn with heavenly arias, golden orioles fluted from every elm, song-sparrows twittered and piped their cheery amateur efforts, and there came the creak and chirr of purple grackles from the balsams and an incessant, never-ending rush of jolly melody from the robins. Over the tumbling river, through the hanging curtains of mist, a great blue heron, looming enormously in the vague light, flapped by in stately flight and alighted upon a bar of golden sand.