" And off she struck again.
Now she sang something soothing and sad, with a wistful lilt in it that
died into a low wail. It needed no Italian to be understood, for it was
written in the language of human experience. A woman's heart throbbed in
the lilt and broke in the wail.
This sweet interval of intimacy verging on friendship was ended by our
close approach to the main road. We had been travelling, heedless of roads
and tracks, across a champaign country, and the slope up to the top of
Yarlet Bank now lay before us. I led the way, skulking behind such poor
cover as the gaunt hedgerows provided, and, when only a hundred paces from
the top, I asked her to crouch down, awaiting my signal to advance, while
I crept forward on my hands and knees to the edge of the road which here
climbed the brow of the hill through a deep cutting, along either margin
of which ran a straggling hedge.
To my relief, the road down the hill, both to right and left, was
completely deserted. I joyfully waved my arm to Mistress Waynflete, who
was soon by my side, looking down the road. To the right we could see for
nearly a mile.
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