The village street behind her was silent now, even the footsteps of
belated folk hurrying to their homes sent up no echo from the soft,
sandy ground. And before her the fast-gathering night was slowly
wrapping the plain in its peace-giving shroud. Inside the cottage all
was still: mother and father lay either asleep or awake thinking of the
morrow.

A great, heavy sob shook the young girl's vigorous young frame. It
seemed too wantonly cruel, this decree of Fate which had withheld from
her the light of her life. How easy it would have been to wait! How
swiftly these two years would have flown past. Her heart would have kept
young--waiting for Andor and for happiness, whereas now it was numb and
unsentient, save for a feeling of obedience and of filial duty, of pity
for her mother and father, and of resignation to her future state.

Indeed Fate was being wantonly cruel to her to the last in thus putting
before her eyes a picture of the might-have-been just when it was too
late. In a few hours from now the great vow would be spoken, the
irrevocable knot tied which bound her to another man. Her troth was
already plighted, her confession made to Pater Bonifacius--in a few
hours from now she would be Bela's wife, and if Andor did come back now,
she must be as nothing to him, he as a mere distant friend.

But probably he never would come back. He received no reply to his fond
letter of farewell, not one word from her to cheer him on his way. No
doubt by now he had made a home for himself in that far distant land.
Another woman--a stranger--revelled in the sunshine of his love, while
Elsa, whose whole life had been wrapped up in him, was left desolate.

For a moment a wild spirit of revolt rose in her. Was it too late, after
all? Was any moment in life too late to snatch at fleeing happiness? Why
shouldn't she run away to-night--now?--find that unknown country, that
unknown spot where Andor was? Surely God would give her strength! God
could not be so unjust and so cruel as men and Fate had been!

Pater Bonifacius, turning from the street round the angle of the
cottage, found her in this mood, squatting on the low stool, her elbows
on her knees, her face buried in her hands. He came up to her quite
gently, for though his was a simple soul it was full of tenderness and
of compassion for the children of these plains whom God had committed
into his charge.

"Elsa, my girl," he asked softly, "what is it?"

CHAPTER X