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The wall was not
high, the escape an easy one. Crouching, their clothes the colour of
clay, they trod cautiously the trench, until opposite a wood whose trees
blackened the slow dawn. Then, without a word, they ran across the road,
and, in a few minutes, were lost in the thick underbrush of the little
forest. It was past four o'clock and the dawn began to trill over the
rim of night; the east burst into stinging sun rays, while the moving
air awoke the birds and sent scurrying around the smooth green park a
cloud of golden powdery dust....
Arved and Quell stood in a secret glade and looked at each other
solemnly--but only for a moment. Laughter, unrestrained laughter,
frightened the squirrels and warned them that they were still in
danger.
"Well, we've escaped this time," said the poet.
"Yes; but how long?" was the sardonic rejoinder of the painter.
"See here, Quell, you're a pessimist. You are never satisfied; which, I
take it, is a neat definition of pessimism."
"I don't propose to chop logic so early in the morning," was the surly
reply.


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