There is a period of suspense in which neither speaks, but after a while they see the black-coated prisoners form into file, with their yellow-clothed guard on either side, and march out of their compound. “They’ve given me up,” says Oskar, and they both breathe freely. They hear the word of command, deadened by distance. Then they see the procession of men pass down the avenue and through the big outer gates into the high road. At first there is only the dull thud of many feet on the hard ground, but as the guards close the gates behind them, and the sharp clang of the iron hasps comes up through the still air, the prisoners break into a cheer. It is wild, broken, irregular cheering, as of fierce disdain, and it is followed by defiant singing-- “_Glo-ry to the brave men of old,_ _Their sons will copy their virtues bold,_ _Courage in heart and a sword in hand...._” A few minutes later the dark figures are hidden by trees, and as they turn the corner of the road by Kirk Patrick their voices die away. They are gone--back to their own country, which wants them not. The camp that has been their prison for four years is empty. It lies, in the quickening daylight, like a vast black scar on the green face of the mountain. Suddenly a new thought comes to Mona. They may still avoid death. Life may yet be open to them. “Oskar,” she says, speaking in a rapid whisper, “now that the officers and the guard have gone, isn’t it possible that we could escape to somewhere ... where we should be unknown....” “Impossible! Quite impossible, Mona.” “Ah yes, I suppose it is,” she says, and they rise to resume their journey. But just then, in the first rays of morning, from a cottage that is between them and the sea, she hears the voice of a woman singing. She knows who the woman is--one of her former maids, who has lately been married to a farm labourer. Perhaps her husband has gone to his work in the fields, and she is out in their little garden, gathering up the eggs of the hens that are clucking. How happy she must be! For a moment Mona’s heart fails her. She forgets the great thoughts of yesterday, and regrets the loss of the simple joys that are reserved for other women. “It seems a pity, though, doesn’t it?” she says. “Do you regret it, Mona?” says Oskar, looking round at her. But at the next moment her soul has regained its strength. “No! Oh, no! It had to be.... And then there is our great hope, our wonderful idea!” “Yes, our great hope, our wonderful idea.” They continue their climbing, still holding each other’s hands, but rarely speaking. Sometimes she stumbles, but he holds her up. The larks are singing now, and the young lambs on John Corlett’s farm are bleating. Far down, on the seaward side, sheltering in the arms of its red cliffs, is the little white town of Peel. It is beginning to smoke for breakfast.