Here she was in a strange
land; there the brown mountains, with their outcroppings of granite and
the voices of the streams, would have shared, she almost thought, in her
new happiness. Great sorrows or great joys had this in common for Ethne
Eustace, they both drew her homewards, since there endurance was more
easy and gladness more complete.
She had, however, one living tie with Donegal at her side, for Dermod's
old collie dog had become her inseparable companion. To him she made her
confidence, and if at times her voice broke in tears, why, the dog would
not tell. She came to understand much which Willoughby had omitted, and
which Feversham had never told. Those three years of concealment in the
small and crowded city of Suakin, for instance, with the troops marching
out to battle, and returning dust-strewn and bleeding and laurelled with
victory. Harry Feversham had to slink away at their approach, lest some
old friend of his--Durrance, perhaps, or Willoughby, or Trench--should
notice him and penetrate his disguise. The panic which had beset him
when first he saw the dark brown walls of Berber, the night in the
ruined acres, the stumbling search for the well amongst the shifting
sandhills of Obak,--Ethne had vivid pictures of these incidents, and as
she thought of each she asked herself: "Where was I then? What was I
doing?"
She sat in a golden mist until the lights began to change upon the still
water of the creek, and the rooks wheeled noisily out from the tree-tops
to sort themselves for the night, and warned her of evening.
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