The sun was yet so hot on the exposed road that Dido and I were glad to
get within the shelter of Daly's Wood. Though the sun poured upon the
wood it was cool within it and steeped in a golden haze. The pale stems
of the springing trees looked like so many great candles in a golden
house; there was a sweet sound of falling waters, for a little mountain
stream ran through the wood, and in its neighbourhood the air was damp
and deliciously sweet. Where the water tumbled over broken boulders and
formed a little pool Dido stood to drink, and I stood, too, a minute
listening to the bird-songs of which the wood was full.

When we had turned round and gone on our way I observed that there was
some one sitting on the stile which led out on the road nearly opposite
the postern gate in our park wall and supposed it to be some one resting
there who would rise up to let me pass.

I could not imagine myself being afraid of these quiet places, where, no
matter what happened elsewhere, the people were always friendly and
respectful. But as I came close up to the man who sat on the stile and
who had not turned his head at the sound of my foot on the path, all of
a sudden I became filled with a nameless terror.

The wide shoulders, the rather massive head with the closely curling red
hair; I seemed to recognize them all at once for Richard Dawson's, and I
was as frightened as ever was a hare of the dogs; nay, more frightened,
for the hare has at least her speed. My feet seemed clogged by leaden
weights as they might be in the terror of a dream. Then the man turned
about with a smile which showed all his white teeth and I was sick with
fear.

"It is the third day I have been waiting for you, you pretty creature,"