It was late summer, with autumn well in view upon the slope of the year. The landscape was growing russet, and none the less fair for that. And it was England—England after the blue plains of the sea and the low, coral isles. And it was country and pure air after the fetid London prison. And it was the land where they were born—it was home, seen after years away. These green fields and spreading trees—this English sky—these birds and flowers and crystal streams—these were no foes of theirs. These had never cast them out. Here as elsewhere, the great round earth had its own orthodoxy, but took scant heed of man’s.... They saw England after long absence; and for all that they were to be slain here, they could find it beautiful, and for all that they knew where ended this road, they played with the happenings upon it. Twenty miles out from London the sheriff’s horse cast a shoe, and at the next smithy all must halt until Grey Dick was shod. The smithy stood in the pleasant shadow of an oak so great that it must have been growing when the Conqueror came over. The hot smithy fire glowed within, iron struck rhythmically against iron. Beyond the tree was a well, and all were thirsty. They had not drawn bridle for several hours. The men dismounted—the two prisoners were given leave to do likewise, even to rest upon the earth beneath the oak. The four children of the smith sat upon a log and watched with an intensity of interest horses and men and all their movements, and the man and woman half sitting, half lying beneath the oak. The smithy dog came up to these two, snuffed around them, and then lay down at their feet. _Clink! Clink!_ and the trees began to wave in an afternoon breeze, and the voices of the men about the well and the smithy door sounded cheerful and hardy. The two had no misliking for the bright world. They sat watching the children.... The youngest child, a yellow-haired mite of three, would make an excursion of its own from the log, past the oak, to the door. In the course of the journey it came upon a protruding root, stumbled over it and fell. Joan sprang forward and lifted it to its feet. “There, there! You’re not hurt—Look at the pretty flower you fell against!” The child decided not to cry, laughed instead. Joan’s arm curved about the sturdy small form and pressed it to her. “Ah, what a good baby!”—The child was willing to stay and play, but with suddenness found herself released, given a gentle push back toward the three upon the log. Joan took her seat again upon the turf. “It wasn’t wise to touch her. It’s strange that it should be so, but if any saw they might bring it against her when she is grown.” She spoke without any pain for herself in her voice, but with yearning and tenderness for the child. “Now she’s there and happy! She’s got a stick to play with.” “Joan, Joan!” said Aderhold. “There will come a day—”