I climbed down to where she lay among the timber and the stones.
I took her hands and held them.
They were cold.
“Rachel,” I said to her, and “Rachel” once again.
The dogs began barking up above, and louder still came the sound of the clanging bell.
She opened her eyes, and looked at me.
At first, I think in pain.
Then in bewilderment. Then finally, so I thought, in recognition.
Yet I was in error, even then.
She called me Ambrose.
I went on holding her hands until she died.
They used to hang men at Four Turnings in the old days.
Not anymore, though.