Chapter XIMellis Dale had passed the night sleeping under a thorn tree in Bracknell Wood, with a pile of last year’s bracken for a bed. The thorn tree had stood as a green and white pavilion, and there was a forest pool among the birch trees of Bracknell that had served her both as a labrum and a mirror. She broke her fast to the sound of the singing of the woodlarks, and with the sunlight playing through the delicate tracery of the birches. Her brown nag² was cropping the wet grass in a little clearing where she had tethered him.  
Mellis’s eyes were full of a quiet tenderness that morning. She was a Forest child, and its sounds and scents³ and colors were very familiar and very dear. She was as forest-wise as any ranger⁴ or woodman, and was as much part of its life as the birds or the deer or the mysterious woodland streams and the brown pools where the dead leaves lay buried. A great content possessed⁵ her. She had no fear of the wild life or of a bed under the stars.
 
The sun had been up some hours before she saddled her nag and rode forward through Bracknell Deep. She knew all the ways, though Woodmere lay three leagues to the north-west, and the Black Moor⁶ two leagues to the east of it. She felt no need of hurrying. The deep woods delighted her; her dark eyes seemed to fill with their mystery; their silence soothed⁷ her heart. Life was a great adventure, a game of hide-and-seek in a garden where every path and nook and thicket⁸ were unknown. She was strong and comely⁹ and full of the pride of her youth; her breath was sweet, her black hair fell to her knees, her lips were as red as the berries on a briar.
 
Martin Valliant was hoeing weeds in Father Jude’s garden when Mellis rode her brown nag up the southern slope of the Black Moor. There was no life in Martin’s labor¹⁰; his eyes had a dull look as though some pain gnawed¹¹ at his vitals. His heart had discovered a new bitterness in life, for the words that Kate Succory had spoken to him in the night kept up a tumult¹³ in his brain. He had begun to understand many things that had seemed obscure and meaningless. He even realized why he was hoeing weeds on the top of a lonely moor. The very men whose life he had shared were filled with malice¹⁴ against him, and, like Joseph’s brethren, were trying to sell him into bondage¹⁵.
 
He heard the tramp of Mellis’s horse, and his new-born mistrust stood on the alert.
 
“Why should I fear anything that walks the earth,” he thought, “man, woman, or beast? They are but creatures of flesh.”
 
And then he discovered himself standing¹⁶ straight as a young ash tree, resting his hands on the top of the handle of the hoe, and staring over the hedge into a woman’s eyes. He could see her head, shoulders and bosom¹⁷; the green hedge hid the rest of her. But if Martin had dared to scoff¹⁸ at Dame¹⁹ Nature, that good lady was quick and vigorous with her retort. She showed him this girl, black-haired, red-lipped, flushed with riding, sitting her horse with a certain haughtiness²⁰, her head held high, her white throat showing proudly.
 
“You are Father Jude?”
 
Martin could have stammered²¹ with a sudden, wondering awe¹² of her. Her eyes were fixed²² on him questioningly, and with an intentness that heralded²³ an incipient²⁴ frown.
 
“Father Jude is no longer here.”
 
“Not here!”
 
“He lies sick at Paradise.”
 
The frown showed now on her forehead. Her eyes lifted and gazed beyond him, and Martin Valliant had never seen such eyes before. His mistrust of her had vanished, he knew not why. Paradise had no knowledge of such a creature as this. She had ridden out of the heart of a mystery, and her face was the face of June.
 
“Fools!”
 
She was angry, perplexed²⁵. And then she smiled down at Martin with quick subtlety²⁶.
 
“Your pardon, father.”
 
She smiled whole-heartedly as she took stock of his youth.
 
“What am I saying! I have a vow²⁷ of silence upon me, save that I may speak to such as you. I am a pilgrim. I had a fellow-pilgrim with me, but she fell sick at Burchester, and I rode on alone. Father Jude’s name was put in my mouth by the prioress of Burchester. Is there not a pilgrim’s rest-house here?”
 
Martin Valliant was still full of his wonder at her beauty.
 
“Assuredly. This is the chapelry of St. Florence. The good saint so willed it that all who passed this way should have food and lodging²⁹.”
 
Her face had changed its expression. She showed a sudden reticence³⁰, a cold pride.
 
“St. Florence has my thanks. Will you send your servant to take my horse?”
 
He gaped³¹ at her, as though overcome by the thought that this creature of mystery was to move and breathe in the guest-house next his cell.
 
He tried to save his dignity by taking refuge in sententiousness.
 
“I am the servant of St. Florence and of all those who tarry here.”
 
She glanced at him guardedly, and seemed to realize his unworldliness.
 
“I shall be no great burden. A stall for the horse and a roof for my own head. I can look to my own horse, if you will show me the stable.”
 
Martin let the hoe drop out of his hands. He went striding along the hedge as though some enchantment³² had fallen upon him. But she was out of the saddle by the time he reached the gate, and, by the way she carried herself, more than fit to deal with her own affairs.
 
“That is the stable, there by the woodstack?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Is the door locked? No? I thank you, good father.”
 
He loitered about there like a great boy, feeling that he ought to............