They did not speak French, of course, but with the dictionary I could make them understand. I folded the corners of the scarf over and tied them, making a neat bundle. Then very carefully, treading on the ends of the stairs near the wall so as not to make them creak, I crept down the stairs, across the hall and out on to the terrace.
Out in the open I was more alert and my hearing seemed keener that it had ever been. The night was warm and windless, but not silent. The night is never entirely silent at Ringstones. Little murmurings and movements of unknown creatures mingle with the endless soft gabbling of the running water. And tonight, or this very early morning, there was at the furthest range of my hearing a vague, whispering stir of some other activity. I had to be very wary. There was fight enough to see the trees and the shapes of the hills distinctly; light enough to see anything that moved across the open grass. I ran on my toes over the milky white patches of moonlight and slipped, like a shadow myself, through the black shadows of the trees. When I reached the gateway in the wall that bounds the park, at the foot of the road up to Ringstones Moor, I stopped and searched under the trees until I found a thin stick. I knew what I ought to look like, because there was a picture of a Runaway in some bound volumes of the Sunday at Home which we used to have at Green Street when I was very little. So I slipped the end of the stick through my bundle and put it over my shoulder. Then I set off up the hill.
The road was very good. It had been widened, the holes had been filled in and the surface made smooth, and below it there was a neat grassy bank, like a sloping wall running all the way up to the brow of the hill. I went up the road quickly. I felt light and elated, but I knew I had to hurry, for, turning my head to the right I saw, beyond the indigo bulk of the other hill, a faint greyness creeping up into the sky, and I saw that the shine was fading from the face of the moon.
I reached the top of the hill where the road used to join the track from Blagill, and all at once my elation turned to such despair that I sat down on a stone and laid my bundle at my feet and wrung my hands. I had told myself all the way from the house that I must go to Blagill, not to Staineshead, and now I saw that there was no road to Blagill either. Sarkissian and the people who had been helping him had covered it over with earth and heather. Instead of the track to Blagill, there was a broad, smooth lane sweeping straight between the scattered stones of Dr Ravelin's ceremonial avenue up to the Stone Circle. The peaty soil had been levelled and reddish sand spread evenly over it. Nowhere among all the silvery greys and shadows of the wide moor was there any other road. The only way out of Ringstones Park led now to the Stone Circle. There, on their grassy platforms, sat the ancient monoliths: blind, still, patient things—blind, but keeping watch in the fading moonlight and the whitening dawn. I saw them grow paler and sharper against the dusky background of the moor. In the heather behind me a little bird raised the first voice of day, three tiny notes like drops of water tinkling into a bowl.
Then, as I expected, Sarkissian came up the road from the park. I could not run away because there was no road away from Ringstones. And in any case, I noticed now, without surprise, on each of the stones bordering the new−made avenue sat a little brown figure, cross−legged with its chin on its hands, watching me and waiting to see Sarkissian take me back. Their picks and shovels were leaning against the stones and they looked as if they were waiting to see something amusing after their labour. They were laughing at me because I had strode up so confidently to take the road they had hidden. Perhaps they would wait to watch me come up again, along their new road, after Nuaman had done something to me for running away. I was not in the least afraid of Sarkissian now; he could only do what Nuaman made him. Nor did he scowl at me. He looked amused. He wore no coat and his shirt was open to the waist so that I could see the jet−black curly hair on his breast When I stood up he looked down at me and wagged his head solemnly.
“You're a nice one, you are,” he said. “Making me traipse all the way up here after you. I ought to have made sure of you last night with the other one.”
Then he took out of his pocket something like a dog's lead with a very small collar attached, and this little strap he buckled tight round my left wrist. He kicked my bundle aside, but picked up my stick and switched it against his leg as he led me down the road. The light of dawn had washed away all the patterns of the moon when we reached the level park. I saw Sarkissian's profile very clearly as I walked along half a pace behind him. I saw the blue−black bristles of his cheek rooted in a skin that was blanched and deadened by the shadowless light of the early dawn. In his right ear there was a thick gold ear−ring which I had never noticed before. We did not follow the winding drive but walked over the grass, grey with dew, under the heavy−leaved trees where the birds were beginning those first songs which have such peculiar intensity and intimacy in the quiet early morning world not yet invaded by human beings.
“Are you taking me to the stables?” I asked.
He laughed ridiculously loud and long and kept jerking the lead and making my wrist jump while he laughed.
“You are a proper card, aren't you?” he said. “The stables! Ho, ho, ho, ho! You've a fancy to be yoked out, eh? Well, no man never drove a prettier pair. No, you're going to be put to school, Miss.”
But we were going to the old stables. Although he led me by an unusual way through the tall shrubberies I knew that we must come out at the stables. The path was so narrow between the thick dark hollies and rhododendrons that I had to fall behind him; my rubber soles slid on the film of moss over the damp earth. Then we came out opposite the double gates of the stable−yard; and now a golden and rosy light was beginning to suffuse the whiteness of the dawn above the Eastern skyline and faint shadows were beginning to stretch away from the trees, across the grass.
We passed through the great gates which were open a little. Inside, everything was changed since the night I saw it before. The court was of vast width, paved with clean, creamy white stone flags. In the middle a marble fountain poured a rushing stream out of a gaping lion's mouth into a wide oval pool where the water wavered and winked, pale blue−green, while bands of light rippled below the marble rim.
All round the court were colonnades, and behind the polished cream and rosy columns were broad walks where people and chariots hurried up and down. On only two sides of the court were there now buildings: on the right was a long range of rooms closed with doors whose brazen hinges glinted against dark red wood, while on the side opposite the gates was a lofty hall into which I could see through arches opening into the long portico before it. It was filled with brilliant light from tall windows in its further wall, and there, among familiar apparatus, people were at exercise. I saw their figures bounding and flying past the open arches as they raced round after each other over the vaulting−horses, and I heard the rapid light beat of their feet on the floor and the crisp shouting of someone commanding them. The third side, to which Sarkissian led me, was a double row of columns through which, looking out in the direction where the Hall once was, I saw a far−stretching lawn, all spangled now with a diamond−sparkle of dew on a green and gold field.