It was strange, now that the novelty of the situation had worn off a little, how quietly and composedly they talked. Blake gave no hope, no hint of union. They might have been parting with a scaffold before one of them, for all the hoping or planning there was in their talk about the future. But notwithstanding the gloom and tragedy which surrounded their lives—the terrible discovery that had come upon her, the utter hopelessness of any happiness before them, this early morning on which she rode clasped in his arms seemed the opening of a new life for Elsie. Her whole being was filled with a curious calm certainty. She knew the worst. She knew his crime, she knew the bar between them. But she knew also that he loved her supremely, she knew that in life or in death she must belong to this man and no other. Her mind was made up, her course was clear.
The east was aglow when they reached the crossing, and the birds had begun to twitter, and the cockatoos to chatter. It was a strange, wonderful world, bathed in dew and suffused with the radiance of sunrise. Blake dismounted. He had reluctantly unfolded his arms from Elsie's form. Their kiss had a great solemnity, as was fitting after this most sad yet sweetest night in the lives of either. Blake settled Elsie on the saddle and walked beside her, holding the rein. Abatos was very quiet, and as if in sympathy rubbed his sleek beautiful head against his master's shoulder. Elsie stooped and kissed the creature's shining mane. "Dear Abatos!" she said. "Do you remember," she added, turning to Blake, "how I once wished that Moonlight might carry me off on Abatos? I have had my wish."
"Not quite," he answered. "I am bringing you home. You don't know the mad longing that seized me last night as we rode together—the longing that it might be to some far-off place, where we should be together to our lives' end."
"Why did you not take me?" she murmured.
"Because I love you, Elsie, too well to sacrifice your life to mine."
"And if I asked you to take me?" she said.
