The sun was now low, and the pines in the square and the upright of the pillory cast long shadows. The wind had fallen and the sounds had died away. It seemed very still. Nothing moved but the creeping shadows until a flight of small white-breasted birds went past the window. “The snow is gone,” I said. “The snowbirds are flying north.” “The woods will soon be green,” she murmured wistfully. “Ah, if we could ride through them once more, back to Weyanoke”-- “To home,” I said. “Home,” she echoed softly. There was a low knocking at the door behind us. “It is Master Rolfe's signal,” she said. “I must not stay. Tell me that you love me, and let me go.” I drew her closer to me and pressed my lips upon her bowed head. “Do you not know that I love you?” I asked. “Yea,” she answered. “I have been taught it. Tell me that you believe that God will be good to us. Tell me that we shall be happy yet; for oh, I have a boding heart this day!” Her voice broke, and she lay trembling in my arms, her face hidden. “If the summer never comes for us”--she whispered. “Good-by, my lover and my husband. If I have brought you ruin and death, I have brought you, too, a love that is very great. Forgive me and kiss me, and let me go.” “Thou art my dearly loved and honored wife,” I said. “My heart forebodes summer, and joy, and peace, and home.” We kissed each other solemnly, as those who part for a journey and a warfare. I spoke no word to Rolfe when the door was opened and she had passed out with her cloak drawn about her face, but we clasped hands, and each knew the other for his friend indeed. They were gone, the gaoler closing and locking the door behind them. As for me, I went back to the settle beneath the window, and, falling on my knees beside it, buried my face in my arms. CHAPTER XXIX IN WHICH I KEEP TRYST THE sun dropped below the forest, blood red, dyeing the river its own color. There were no clouds in the sky,--only a great suffusion of crimson climbing to the zenith; against it the woods were as black as war paint. The color faded and the night set in, a night of no wind and of numberless stars. On the hearth burned a fire. I left the window and sat beside it, and in the hollows between the red embers made pictures, as I used to make them when I was a boy. I sat there long. It grew late, and all sounds in the town were hushed; only now and then the “All's well!” of the watch came faintly to my ears. Diccon lodged with me; he lay in his clothes upon a pallet in the far corner of the room, but whether he slept or not I did not ask. He and I had never wasted words; since chance had thrown us together again we spoke only when occasion required.