“An’ now, Jack, tighter—hold me tighter. Kiss me—oh, what brave times! Tighter, lad, an’ call wi’ me—‘Church an’ King!’ Call, lad—‘Church an’—’” The warm arms loosen’d: the head sank back upon my lap. I look’d up. There was a shadow across the entrance, blotting out the star of night. ’Twas Delia, leaning there and listening. CHAPTER XIX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE HEARSE. The day-spring came at last, and in the sick light of it I went down to the cottage for spade and pickaxe. In the tumult of my senses I hardly noted that our prisoner, the dragoon, had contrived to slip his bonds and steal off in the night. And then Delia, seeing me return with the sad tools on my shoulder, spoke for the first time: “First, if there be a well near, fetch me two buckets of water, and leave us for an hour.” Her voice was weary and chill: so that I dared not thank her, but did the errand in silence. Then, but a dozen paces from the spot where Joan’s father lay, I dug a grave and strew’d it with bracken, and heather, and gorse petals, that in the morning air smell’d rarely. And soon after my task was done, Delia call’d me. In her man’s dress Joan lay, her arms cross’d, her black tresses braided, and her face gentler than ever ’twas in life. Over her wounded breast was a bunch of some tiny pink flower, that grew about the tor. So I lifted her softly as once in this same place she had lifted me, and bore her down the slope to the grave: and there I buried her, while Delia knelt and pray’d, and Molly browsed, lifting now and then her head to look. When all was done, we turn’d away, dry-eyed, and walked together to the cottage. The bay horse was feeding on the moor below; and finding him still too lame to carry Delia, I shifted the saddles, and mending the broken rein, set her on Molly. The cottage door stood open, but we did not enter; only look’d in, and seeing Jan Tergagle curl’d beside the cold hearth, left him so. Mile after mile we pass’d in silence, Delia riding, and I pacing beside her with the bay. At last, tortur’d past bearing, I spoke— “Delia, have you nothing to say?” For a while she seem’d to consider: then, with her eyes fix’d on the hills ahead, answered— “Much, if I could speak: but all this has changed me somehow—’tis, perhaps, that I have grown a woman, having been a girl—and need to get used to it, and think.” She spoke not angrily, as I look’d for; but with a painful slowness that was less hopeful. “But,” said I, “over and over you have shown that I am nought to you. Surely—” “Surely I am jealous? ’Tis possible—yes, Jack, I am but a woman, and so ’tis certain.” “Why, to be jealous, you must love me!” She look’d at me straight, and answered very deliberate— “Now that is what I am far from sure of.” “But, dear Delia, when your anger has cool’d—”