"Come, Joan, we shall be drowned."
He had wrapped her in a part of the mackintosh, and laughed as he fastened
them both into it and hugged her close to himself. But she broke away,
greatly fearing, yet knowing not what she feared.
"I reckon I'd best run down fast. Indeed an' I want to go."
"Go? Where? Where should you go? Come to me, Joan; you shall; you must. We
two, sweetheart--we two against the rain and the wind and the world. Come!
It will kill me to stand here, and you don't want that."
"But--"
"Come, I say. Quicker and quicker! We two--only we two. Don't make me
command you, my priceless treasure of a Joan. Come with me. You are mine
now and always. Quicker and quicker, I say. God! what rain!"
Still she hesitated and he grew angry.
"This is folly, madness. Where is your trust and belief? You don't trust,
nor love, nor--"
"Doan't 'e say that! Never say that! It edn' true. You'm all to me, an' you
knaws it right well, an' I'll gaw to the world's end with 'e, I will--ay,
an' trust 'e wi' my life!"
He moved away and she followed, hastening as he hastened. Unutterable
desolation marked the spot. Life had vanished save only where sheep
clustered under a bank with their tails to the weather, and long-legged
lambs blinked their yellow eyes and bleated as the couple passed. Despite
their haste the man and the girl were very wet before reaching the shelter
of the byre.
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