He turned a velvet dark eye upon her, and nosed her forgivingly with a warm velvet muzzle, but it was plain that, for the time, he was done for.  They both moved haltingly to the broken gate, and Betty fastened him to a thorn tree near it, where he stood on three feet, his fine head drooping.

She pushed the gate open, and went into the house through the door which hung on its hinges.  Once inside, she stood still and looked about her.  If there was silence and desolateness outside, there was within the deserted place a stillness like the unresponse of death.  It had been long since anyone had lived in the cottage, but tramps or gipsies had at times passed through it.  Dead, blackened embers lay on the hearth, a bundle of dried grass which had been slept on was piled in the corner, an empty nail keg and a wooden box had been drawn before the big chimney place for some wanderer to sit on when the black embers had been hot and red.

Betty gave one glance around her and sat down upon the box standing on the bare hearth, her head sinking forward, her hands falling clasped between her knees, her eyes on the brick floor.

“Where is he now?” broke from her in a loud whisper, whose sound was mechanical and hollow.  “Where is he now?”

And she sat there without moving, while the grey mist from the marshes crept close about the door and through it and stole about her feet.

So she sat long—­long—­in a heavy, far-off dream.

Along the road a man was riding with a lowering, fretted face.  He had come across country on horseback, because to travel by train meant wearisome stops and changes and endlessly slow journeying, annoying beyond endurance to those who have not patience to spare.  His ride would have been pleasant enough but for the slow mist-like rain.  Also he had taken a wrong turning, because he did not know the roads he travelled.  The last signpost he had passed, however, had given him his cue again, and he began to feel something of security.  Confound the rain!  The best road was slippery with it, and the haze of it made a man’s mind feel befogged and lowered his spirits horribly—­discouraged him—­would worry him into an ill humour even if he had reason to be in a good one.  As for him, he had no reason for cheerfulness—­he never had for the matter of that, and just now——!  What was the matter with his horse?  He was lifting his head and sniffing the damp air restlessly, as if he scented or saw something.  Beasts often seemed to have a sort of second sight—­horses particularly.

What ailed him that he should prick up his ears and snort after his sniffing the mist!  Did he hear anything?  Yes, he did, it seemed.  He gave forth suddenly a loud shrill whinny, turning his head towards a rough lane they were approaching, and immediately from the vicinity of a deserted-looking cottage behind a hedge came a sharp but mournful-sounding neigh in answer.

“What horse is that?” said Nigel Anstruthers, drawing in at the entrance to the lane and looking down it.  “There is a fine brute with a side-saddle on,” he added sharply.  “He is waiting for someone.  What is a woman doing there at this time?  Is it a rendezvous?  A good place——­”