Even now perhaps all was lost.
"I will meet you tonight, then--at the top of the hill. See? By the
Preaching Tree."
She nodded her head toward the church corner. "At eight sharp, by the
west face of the clock. And, mind you, Mr. Man, not one jot late or
early."
Although he heard the quick fall of her feet in the dust grow fainter,
it pleased him not to turn. There was a prickling above his heart and at
the cords of his throat. The harbor was as blue as a map suddenly
unrolled at his feet. Clouds with a purple warp were massing in the
east.
The harbor master stared hard at the low ridge of an outlying island
where a cow had been put to pasture. The hillocky back of that lone
ruminant grew black as ink in the glow of sunset. The creature exhibited
a strange fixity of outline, as if it had been a chance configuration of
rocks. Rackby in due time felt a flaming impatience shoot upward from
his heels. Water soughed and chuckled at the foot of the crab-apple
tree, but these eager little voices could no longer soothe or even
detain him with their familiar assurances.
He jumped up and stared hard at the west face of the clock, whose gilt
hands were still discernible in the fading light. It was five minutes of
eight.
When he slipped into the shadow of the Preaching Tree it had grown dark.
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