the prickly pungente,[1] the common snipe foraging for slugs and snails amongst the sharp spines of the water-soldier, the woodcock winging his way against the wind as he likes best to do, the great plover trotting to the marsh to drink, these were all dear companions, welcome as the air.
She made her way quickly over the solitary moor down to the beach. Some far-off bell from a church far inland on the waste was tolling for vespers; the night was clear and cold. She found her boat safe, and unmoored it and rowed backward. There was no wind, and the way seemed very long. For the first time in her life she felt terrified and feeble. The sea looked so wide and the heavens so vast.
The moon was full and of a deep gold colour; she wondered was it the dead man's golden shield that lay in the tomb all day and at night was held up there by unseen hands? A golden shooting-star flashed down the west; she thought it was the dead man's vanished spear.
The dead had risen and fled.
Was he there in the lustre of the sky?
The great fear went with her like a pur-
