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.