The process of transference brought to his consciousness the fact of his bareheadedness.  He put on his cap and they trudged along the road like gipsy man and wife, saying not a word to each other.  For two miles they proceeded thus, sometimes in utter blackness when the road wound between thick oak plantations, sometimes in the lesser dimness of the open when it passed by the rolling fields; and not a sign of human life disturbed the country stillness.  Then they turned into the London road and passed through a village.  Lights were in the windows.  One cottage door stood open.  A shaft of light streamed across Emmy’s face, and Septimus caught a glimpse of drawn and haggard misery.  They went on for another mile.  Now and then a laborer passed them with an unsurprised greeting.  A milkcart rattled by and then all was silence again.  Gradually the stars lost brilliance.

All of a sudden, at the foot of a rise crowned by a cottage looming black against the sky, Emmy broke down and cast herself on a heap of stones by the side of the road, a helpless bundle of sobs and incoherent lamentations.  She could bear it no longer.  Why had he not spoken to her?  She could go no further.  She wished she were dead.  What was going to become of her?  How could he walk by her side saying nothing, like a dumb jailer?  He had better go back to Nunsmere and leave her to die by the wayside.  It was all she asked of Heaven.

“Oh, God have pity on me,” she moaned, and rocked herself to and fro.

Septimus stood for a time tongue-tied in acute distress.  This was his first adventure in knight-errantry and he had served before neither as page nor squire.  He would have given his head to say the unknown words that might comfort her.  All he could do was to pat her on the shoulder in a futile way and bid her not to cry, which, as all the world knows, is the greatest encouragement to further shedding of tears a weeping woman can have.  Emmy sobbed more bitterly than ever.  Once more on that night of agonizing dubiety, what was to be done?  He looked round desperately for guidance, and, as he looked, a light appeared in the window of the hilltop cottage.

“Perhaps,” said he, “if I knock at the door up there, they can give you a glass of milk.  Or a cup of tea,” he added, brightening with the glow of inspiration.  “Or they may be able to let you lie down for a while.”

But Emmy shook her head miserably.  Milk, tea, recumbent luxury were as nothing to her.  Neither poppy nor mandragora (or words to that effect) could give her ease again.  And she couldn’t walk four miles, and she must catch the morning train.

“If you’ll tell me what I can do,” said Septimus, “I’ll do it.”

A creaky rumble was heard in the distance and presently they made out a cart coming slowly down the hill.  Septimus had another brilliant idea.

“Let me put you into that and take you back to Nunsmere.”

She sprang to her feet and clutched his arm.