To reach it one had to cross a ridge of hills covered
with furze bushes and tumbled fragments of ancient rock.
Half-way up the first ascent he paused. A figure had struggled into
sight from the opposite side--the figure of a girl. Her skirts and cloak
were being blown wildly about her. She wore a flat Tam-o'-Shanter hat,
from under the confines of which her hair was defying the restraint of
hatpins and elastic. She stood there swaying a little from the violence
of the wind, slim and elegant, notwithstanding a certain intensity of
gaze and bearing. Duncombe felt his heart give a quick jump as he
recognized her. Then he started up the hill as fast as he could go.
She stood perfectly still, watching him clamber up to her side. Her face
showed no sign of pleasure or annoyance at his coming. He felt at once
that it was not he alone who had realized the coming of the tragedy.
No words of conventional greeting passed between them as he clambered
breathless to her side. The wind had brought no color into her cheeks.
There were rims under her eyes. She had the appearance of one who had
come into touch with fearsome things.
"What do you want with me?" she asked.
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