I do not know what strangled cry burst from me. The earth was rocking, all the wood a glare of light. As for him, at the sight of me and the sound of my voice he had staggered back against a tree; but now, recovering himself, he ran to me and put his great arms about me. “From the power of the dog, from the lion's mouth,” he cried brokenly. “And they slew thee not, Ralph, the heathen who took thee away! Yesternight I learned that you lived, but I looked not for you here.” I scarce heard or marked what he was saying, and found no time in which to wonder at his knowledge that I had not perished. I only saw that he was alone, and that in the evening wood there was no sign of other living creature. “Yea, they slew me not, Jeremy,” I said. “I would that they had done so. And you are alone? I am glad that you died not, my friend; yes, faith, I am very glad that one escaped. Tell me about it, and I will sit here upon the bank and listen. Was it done in this wood? A gloomy deathbed, friend, for one so young and fair. She should have died to soft music, in the sunshine, with flowers about her.” With an exclamation he put me from him, but kept his hand upon my arm and his steady eyes upon my face. “She loved laughter and sunshine and sweet songs,” I continued. “She can never know them in this wood. They are outside; they are outside the world, I think. It is sad, is it not? Faith, I think it is the saddest thing I have ever known.” He clapped his other hand upon my shoulder. “Wake, man!” he commanded. “If thou shouldst go mad now--Wake! thy brain is turning. Hold to thyself. Stand fast, as thou art soldier and Christian! Ralph, she is not dead. She will wear flowers,--thy flowers,--sing, laugh, move through the sunshine of earth for many and many a year, please God! Art listening, Ralph? Canst hear what I am saying?” “I hear,” I said at last, “but I do not well understand.”