This road that was a mere rutted white dust, hot
underfoot, blinding to the eye, is now a soft grey silence, with
the glitter of a crystal grain set starlike in its silver here
and there. Overhead, riding serenely through the spacious blue,
is the mother of the silence, she who has spiritualised the
world, alone save for two attendant steady shining stars. And in
silence under her benign influence, under the benediction of her
light, rode our two wanderers side by side through the
transfigured and transfiguring night.
Nowhere was the moon shining quite so brightly as in Mr.
Hoopdriver's skull. At the turnings of the road he made his
decisions with an air of profound promptitude (and quite
haphazard). "The Right," he would say. Or again "The Left," as
one who knew. So it was that in the space of an hour they came
abruptly down a little lane, full tilt upon the sea. Grey beach
to the right of them and to the left, and a little white cottage
fast asleep inland of a sleeping fishing-boat. "Hullo!" said Mr.
Hoopdriver, sotto voce. They dismounted abruptly. Stunted oaks
and thorns rose out of the haze of moonlight that was tangled in
the hedge on either side.
"You are safe," said Mr. Hoopdriver, sweeping off his cap with an
air and bowing courtly.
"Where are we?"
"SAFE."
"But WHERE?"
"Chichester Harbour." He waved his arm seaward as though it was a
goal.
"Do you think they will follow us?"
"We have turned and turned again."
It seemed to Hoopdriver that he heard her sob.
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