and there thin columns of smoke. Suddenly, as we stared,
three or four white smoke puffs, like giant flowers, started out of the
shadowy woods across the neck. Following the crack of the muskets--fired
out of pure bravado by their Indian owners--came the yelling of the
savages. The sound was prolonged and deep, as though issuing from many
throats.

I looked and listened, and knew that I could not go,--not now.

"She was not alone, Ralph," said Rolfe, with his arm about me. "On the
morning that she was missed, they found not Jeremy Sparrow either. They
tracked them both to the forest by the footprints upon the sand,
though once in the wood the trail was lost. The minister must have been
watching, must have seen her leave the house, and must have followed
her. How she, and he after her, passed through the gates, none know. So
careless and confident had we grown--God forgive us!--that they may have
been left open all that night. But he was with her, Ralph; she had not
to face it alone"--His voice broke.

For myself, I was glad that the minister had been there, though I knew
that for him also I should grieve after a while.

At the firing and the shouting West had rushed from the room, followed
by his fellow Councilors, and now the Governor clapped on his headpiece
and called to his men to bring his back-and-breast. His wife hung around
his neck, and he bade her good-by with great tenderness. I looked dully
on at that parting. I too was going to battle. Once I had tasted such a
farewell, the pain, the passion, the sweetness, but never again,--never
again.

He went, and the Treasurer, after a few words of comfort to Lady Wyatt,
was gone also. Both were merciful, and spoke not to me, but only bowed
and turned aside, requiring no answering word or motion of mine. When
they were away, and there was no sound in the room save the caged bird's
singing and Lady Wyatt's low sobs, I begged Rolfe to leave me, telling
him that he was needed, as indeed he was, and that I would stay in the
window for a while, and then would join him at the palisade. He was
loath to go; but he too had loved and lost, and knew that there is
nothing to be said, and that it is best to be alone. He went, and only
Lady Wyatt and I kept the quiet room with the singing bird and the
sunshine on the floor.

I leaned against the window and looked out into the street,--which was
not crowded now, for the men were all at their several posts,--and at
the budding