and the rolling hills beyond Axcester. By one of these windows M. Raoul
halted--and Dorothea halted too, slightly puzzled.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, but there is one thing your brother forgets! What
became of his happy colonists in the end? He told us that early in the
fifth century the Emperor Honorius--was it not?--withdrew his
legions, and wrote that Britain must henceforth look after itself. I
listened for the end of the story, but your brother did not supply it.
Yet sooner or later one and the same dreadful fate must have overtaken
all these pleasant scattered homes--sack and fire and slaughter--
slaughter for all the men, for the women slavery and worse. Does one
hear of any surviving? Out of this warm life into silence--" He paused
and shivered. "Very likely they did not guess for a long while. Look,
Mademoiselle, at the Fosse Way, stretching yonder across the hills:
figure yourself a daughter of the old Roman homestead standing here and
watching the little cloud of dust that meant the retreating column, the
last of your protection. You would not guess what it meant--you, to
whom each day has brought its restful round; who have lived only to be
good and reflect the sunshine upon all near you. And I--your slave,
suppose me, standing beside you--might guess as little."

He took a step and touched her hand. His face was still turned to the
window.

"Time! time!" he went on in a low voice, charged with passion. "It
eats us all! Brr--how I hate it! How I hate the grave! There lies the
sting, Mademoiselle--the torture to be a captive: to feel one's best
days slipping away, and fate still denying to us poor devils the chance
which even the luckiest--God knows--find little enough." He laughed,
and to Dorothea the laugh sounded passing bitter. "You will not