She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. They agreed that they must marry at once, this morning, before the doctor could suspect what was toward.
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