“Now, we’ve got to be quick, and silent.” “I want to stay out more.” “The curfew!” (which had, already, tolled the knell of parting day.) No one could be out. He was, in theory, patrolling the streets, dark, tasting the sea close by. Spring breezed through the alleys near the port. The two were heard; He tracked them down, drunk, one intention only. “We’ve got to run faster.” They got home, big wooden door, which he started banging on, ordering to come out. The girl was rushed upstairs, the aunt lingered by the door to bolt it with her own person. He had liked the freshness of the girl and her white flappy skirt. One gun shot, as if straight through the wood he could see, by the periodical beam flashing from the lighthouse. The stars were out. And the aunt fell, the girl saw, gone. He left, young, lurching through the night with a warm gun.