mate from--well, you understand."

"It's all very well to build theories on board ship about bettering
myself socially and all that, but it's rot; I'll be knocked over by one
of the country witches, I know I shall,--I feel it. I love the sound of
the Devon on their lips, and the clear eyes of them, and the bright
skin. 'Tis all I can do to keep from hugging the women, and that's a
fact. But you, you cold-blooded beggar, your heart's still for the grey
granite and the old ghostly stones, and creepy, lonely places on the
Moor! We're that different, you and me."

Martin nodded thoughtfully, and, the meal being now ended, both men
strolled out of doors, then wandered down to smoke a pipe on Rushford
Bridge and listen to the nightly murmur of the river. Darkness moved on
the face of land and water; twilight had sucked all the colour away from
the valley; and through the deepening monochrome of the murk there
passed white mists with shadowy hands, and peeped blind pale eyes along
the winding water, where its surface reflected the faded west. Nocturnal
magic conjured the least meadow into an unmeasured sea of vapour; awoke
naiads in the waters and dryads in the woods; transformed the solemn
organ music of great beetles into songs of a roaming spirit; set unseen
shapes stirring in the starlight; whispered of invisible, enchanted
things, happy and unhappy, behind the silence.

A man moved from the bridge as the brothers reached it. Then Will
Blanchard, knocking out his pipe and taking a big inspiration, set his
face steadily toward Monks Barton and that vital interview with Miller
Lyddon now standing in the pathway of his life.

He rapped at the farm door and a step came slowly down the stone-paved