Believing me vile, you are pitiless, cold, and
with no mercy in you. Indeed and you would have shamed me! But
true love, being of Heaven, knows no shame and can never die. Oh,
you poor, blind Peregrine.
TO MY PATIENT AND KINDLY READER
Here do I make an end of this Second Book, wherein shall be found
overmuch of blood, of gloom and shadow, of misunderstanding and
heartbreak engendered of my own perfervid imagination; and glad am I
and more than glad to have done with it.
And here, since the longest road must end, since after storm and
tempest must come peace and heavenly calm, and because "though
heaviness endure for a night yet joy cometh in the morning"--here do I
begin this Third, last, and shortest Book which those enduring Readers
who have borne with and followed me thus far may see is inscribed
DAWN
_Book Three_
DAWN
CHAPTER I
CONCERNING ONE TOM MARTIN, AN OSTLER
I sat upon a hay pile in that same shady corner of the yard behind the
"Chequers" inn where once had stood a weather-beaten cart drawn by a
four-footed philosopher called Diogenes.
But to-day this corner was empty save for myself, and the yard also
except for two or three wains or country waggons and a man in a
sleeved waistcoat who chewed upon a straw and stared at the inn, the
waggons and myself with a faded, lack-lustre eye and sniffed; so
frequently indeed, and so loudly that at last it obtruded itself upon
my notice.
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