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Her
way
back
to
the
house
was
by
a
path
through
a
young
plantation
of
tapering
firs
,
which
had
been
planted
some
years
earlier
to
shelter
the
premises
from
the
north
wind
.
By
reason
of
the
density
of
the
interwoven
foliage
overhead
,
it
was
gloomy
there
at
cloudless
noontide
,
twilight
in
the
evening
,
dark
as
midnight
at
dusk
,
and
black
as
the
ninth
plague
of
Egypt
at
midnight
.
To
describe
the
spot
is
to
call
it
a
vast
,
low
,
naturally
formed
hall
,
the
plumy
ceiling
of
which
was
supported
by
slender
pillars
of
living
wood
,
the
floor
being
covered
with
a
soft
dun
carpet
of
dead
spikelets
and
mildewed
cones
,
with
a
tuft
of
grass
-
blades
here
and
there
.
This
bit
of
the
path
was
always
the
crux
of
the
night
’
s
ramble
,
though
,
before
starting
,
her
apprehensions
of
danger
were
not
vivid
enough
to
lead
her
to
take
a
companion
.
Slipping
along
here
covertly
as
Time
,
Bathsheba
fancied
she
could
hear
footsteps
entering
the
track
at
the
opposite
end
.
It
was
certainly
a
rustle
of
footsteps
.
Her
own
instantly
fell
as
gently
as
snowflakes
.
She
reassured
herself
by
a
remembrance
that
the
path
was
public
,
and
that
the
traveller
was
probably
some
villager
returning
home
;
regretting
,
at
the
same
time
,
that
the
meeting
should
be
about
to
occur
in
the
darkest
point
of
her
route
,
even
though
only
just
outside
her
own
door
.
The
noise
approached
,
came
close
,
and
a
figure
was
apparently
on
the
point
of
gliding
past
her
when
something
tugged
at
her
skirt
and
pinned
it
forcibly
to
the
ground
.
The
instantaneous
check
nearly
threw
Bathsheba
off
her
balance
.
In
recovering
she
struck
against
warm
clothes
and
buttons
.
"
A
rum
start
,
upon
my
soul
!
"
said
a
masculine
voice
,
a
foot
or
so
above
her
head
.
"
Have
I
hurt
you
,
mate
?
"
"
No
,
"
said
Bathsheba
,
attempting
to
shrink
away
.
"
We
have
got
hitched
together
somehow
,
I
think
.
"
"
Yes
.
"
"
Are
you
a
woman
?
"
"
Yes
.
"
"
A
lady
,
I
should
have
said
.
"
