Standing here, the houses and trees of the village lay below them.  The whole glinting expanse of the Haven was visible right up to the town of Marychurch gathered about its long-backed Abbey, whose tower, tall and in effect almost spectral, showed against the purple ridges of forest and moorland beyond.  Over the salt marsh in the valley, a flock of plovers dipped and wheeled, their backs and wide flapping wings black, till, in turning, their breasts and undersides flashed into snow and pearl.

And because brother and sister, notwithstanding diversities of upbringing and of station, were alike children of the open rather than of cities, born to experiment, to travel and to seafaring round this ever-spinning globe, they instinctively took note of the extensive, keen though sun-gilded prospect—­before breaking silence and giving voice to the emotion which possessed them—­and, in so doing, found refreshment and a brave cleansing to their souls.

Still holding Faircloth’s hand, and still silent, her shoulder touching his now and again in walking, Damaris went down the sloping path, hoary lichen-stained head-and-foot stones set in the vivid churchyard grass—­as yet unbleached by the cold of winter—­on either side.  The sense of his strength, of the fine unblemished vigour of his young manhood, here close beside her—­so strangely her possession and portion of her natural inalienable heritage—­filled her with confident security and with a restful, wondering calm.  So that the shame publicly put on her to shed its bitterness, her horror of the watching crowd departed, fading out into unreality.  Though still shaken, still quivering inwardly from the ordeal of the past hour, she already viewed that shame and horror as but accidents to be lived down and disregarded, by no means as essential elements in the adventurous and precious whole.  Presently they would altogether lose their power to wound and to distress her, while this freedom and the closer union, gained by means of them, continued immutable and fixed.

It followed that, when in opening the churchyard gate and holding it back for her to pass, Faircloth perforce let go her hand and, the spell of contact severed, found himself constrained to speak at last, saying: 

“You know you have done a mighty splendid, dangerous thing—­no less than burned your boats—­and that in the heat of generous impulse, blind, perhaps—­I can’t but fear so—­to the heavy cost.”

Damaris could interrupt him, with quick, sweet defiance: 

“But there is no cost!”

And, to drive home the sincerity of her disclaimer, and further reassure him, she took his hand again and held it for an instant close against her bosom, tears and laughter together present in her eyes.

“Ah! you beautiful dear, you beautiful dear,” Faircloth cried, brokenly, as in pain, somewhat indeed beside himself.  “Before God, I come near blessing that blatant young fool and pharisee of a parson since he has brought me to this.”