Musa passed on under the pines.
She could not have borne the fret and jar of the woman's well-meant condolence and sympathy. She could not have borne the sound of any human voice—save one.
All she could bear to hear was the breathing of the wind amongst the trees, the lap of the sea water on the beach. All human words only lacerated and hurt her, be they gentle as they might.
She had been sorely wounded. The insult of her captivity was bitter to a nature which had inherited all her father's pride, and something of her father's arrogance, with a sensitive reserve that her lonely life had fostered till she shrank like the mimosa from any human touch.
She needed to be alone; alone with the shadows and the leaves, and the wide waters, and the green wet plain, and all the things that told her she was free.
She found her way back as the hunted hare escaping travels footsore to its form amongst the saintfoin and the spurge.
She was very tired. She was often faint; she had not a coin upon her; she slept the night out under a little hut of brake and
