The pungent odour of the heaths through which she went seemed to her like a draught of wine, the strong sea breeze which was blowing bore her up like wings.  She forgot that she was once more a homeless waif, as she had been that day when she had sat under the dock leaves by the Edera water.  He had told her she should go back; she believed him:  that was enough.  Madonna Clelia would forgive, she felt sure, for what harm had she done?  All would be well; she would feed the oxen again, and go again to the spring for water, and all would be as it had been before —­ her thoughts, her desires, went no farther than that.  So, with a light heart she followed him gaily, running where there was open ground, pushing hard where the heather grew, going always in the same path as Adone had done.

All of a sudden she stopped short, in alarm.

The night was still; the spring of the river was loud upon it, owls hooted and chuckled, now and then a fox in the thickets barked.  There are many sounds in the open country at night; sounds of whirring pinions, of stealthy feet, of shrill, lone cries, of breaking twigs, of breaking ferns, of little rivulets unheard by day, of timid creatures taking courage in the dark.  But to these sounds she was used; she could give a name to every one of them.  She heard now what was unfamiliar to her in these solitudes; she heard the footsteps of men; and it seemed to her, all around her, as though in a moment of time, the heath and bracken and furze grew alive to their tryst with Adone?  She did not think so, for she had never known the few men in the village summon courage to join the armed meetings of the men of the valley.  She stopped and listened, as a pole-cat which was near her did; the sounds were those of human beings, breathing, creeping, moving under the heather.

Suddenly she felt some presence close to her in the dark; she held her breath; she shrank noiselessly between the plumes of heath.  If they were men of the country they would not hurt her, but if not —­ she was not sure.

Near her was an open space where the wild growth had been recently cut.  The men debouched on to it from the undergrowth, there was a faint light from the stars on that strip of rough grass; by it she saw that they were soldiers, five in number.

A great terror cowed her, like a hand of ice at her heart, a terror not for herself, but for those away there, in the green hollow by the three stone-pines.

They were soldiers; yes, they were soldiers; the sounds she had heard had been the crushing of the plants under their feet, the click of their muskets as they moved; they were soldiers!  Where had they come from?  There were no soldiers at Ruscino.

The only time when she had ever seen soldiers had been when the troopers had captured Baruffo.  These were not troopers; they were small men, on foot, linen-clad, moving stealthily, and as if in fear; only the tubes of their muskets glistened in the light of the great planets.