She was bitter and fierce, and wounded.
“I will not ask God or the saints for anything—no, nor Mother Mary. My brother had no sin
upon him. Let them look to their own.”
So Martin tolled1 the bell, lit candles, and chanted a death Mass, yet all the while he was
thinking of the rebel woman out yonder and of the despair in her eyes. Nature was striking
shrewd blows at Martin’s simplicity2, using the lecherous3 treachery of Geraint and the
bloody4 heartlessness of the Lord of Troy to prove to him that there are great violences on
earth, lusts5 and cruelties and loves that no mere6 saint can conquer. Even Mellis’s wild
words of revolt sounded more real and human than the patter of his prayers. He knelt a long
while in silence, wondering, asking himself grim questions. How would his father, old
Valliant, have acted? Would he have put up a prayer, or donned harness and taken the sword?
Mellis would not enter the chapel7 or kneel before the altar. She went wandering over the
moor8, recklessly, with that fever of anguish9 and hatred10 burning in her blood. She wanted to
hurt those men who had killed her brother. She wanted to take the Lord of Troy and give him
to some strong man to be throttled11. All the love and tenderness that were in her were like
perfumes thrown upon the flames.
Wearied at last, she came back to the great cross, passed under its shadow, and entering
the rest-house, lay down upon her bed. The room was cool and silent, with its massive walls
of stone and thickly thatched roof, and not a sound disturbed her; but she could neither
sleep nor rest because of the knowledge of the peril12 that threatened her. Mellis felt
herself betrayed, hunted, and her instincts warned her that she would be shown no mercy.
She did not believe that her brother’s death had come about casually13, or that he had been
stabbed wantonly or in error. The shadow of Troy Castle loomed14 over her. She was fey that
morning; the Forest whispered a warning.
About noon Martin Valliant took his spade and went out to dig in the garden. He was shy of
Mellis, shy of her despair, and the new manhood that had been born in him chafed15 and raged
at the vows16 that held it. The blood of old Roger Valliant was alive in him; he was more the
son of his father than he knew.
The garden hedge shut Martin in upon himself, and he could see nothing of the moor, so that
one of Noble Vance’s archers17 was able to come scouting19 right to the foot of the great
cross and creep away again unnoticed. The fellow went back to a heathy hollow where the
Forest Warden
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