He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. Gerald would certainly have demanded back his sword. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. I am sorry to seem to hurt you, but all I say is for your good. A man’s children nowadays are not his own. Don’t ask me how. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. The executioner shook his head. To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. He was detained.
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