“What can we do here?” the girl cried abruptly.  “There—­I never meant to say it.  But it runs in my head all the time.  I work and work, to keep it down.  What can we do here?”

Heywood watched her face, set straight before them, and now more clearly cut in the failing light.  Were there only pride in those fine and resolute lines, it might have been a face from some splendid coin, or medal of victory.

“You work too hard,” he said.  “Think, instead, of all the good—­”

But at that she seemed to wince.

“The good?  As if there weren’t dark streets and crooked children at home!  Oh, the pride and ignorance that sent me here!” She spoke quietly, with a kind of wonder.  “Just blind, ignorant feelings, I took them for—­for something too great and mysterious.  It’s all very strange to look back on, and try to put into words.  I remember painted glass, and solemn music—­and thinking—­then!—­that I knew this lovely and terrible world—­and its Maker and Master.”  She looked down the dusky lanes, where glowworm lanterns began to bob and wink.  “Oh, this land! where you see the days running into years!”

“The Dragon’s a wise old beast,” he ventured.  “He teaches—­something.”

She assented gravely:—­

“And in those days I thought it was a dark continent—­of lost souls.”

“There are no dark continents,” declared Heywood suddenly, in a broken voice.  “The heart of one man—­can hold more darkness—­You would never see into it—­”

“Don’t!” she cried sharply.  “What did we promise?”

They stood close in the dusk, and a tremor, a wave, passed through them both.

“I forgot—­I couldn’t help”—­he stammered; then, as they stumbled forward, he regained his former tone, keen and ready.  “Mustn’t get to fussing about our work, must we?—­Curious thing:  speaking of dreams, you know.  The other night I thought you were somewhere out on board a junk, and Flounce with you.  I swam like anything, miles and miles, but couldn’t get out to you.  Worked like steam, and no headway.  Flounce knew I was coming, but you didn’t.  Deuced odd, how real it seemed.”

She laughed, as though they had walked past some danger.

“And speaking of dragons,” she rejoined.  “They do help.  The man in the story, that dipped in dragon’s blood, was made invulnerable.”

“Oh?” He stood plainly at a loss.  “Oh, I see.  German, wasn’t he?—­Pity they didn’t pop Rudie Hackh in!”

Her swift upward glance might have been admiration, if she had not said:—­

“Your mind works very slowly.”

“Oh?” Again he paused, as though somewhat hurt; then answered cheerfully:  “Dare say.  Always did.  Thought at first you meant the rattan-juice kind, from Sumatra.”