Martin Valliant began the morning with a queer flush of excitement, even of trepidation2. The woman with the dark hair and the wild woodland eyes would mount her horse and ride away out of his life. And somehow he did not want her to go, nor was he ashamed of the desire. He found himself in awe3 of her, but he did not fear her as he had feared poor Kate Succory. She was a mystery, a vision, a strange new world that made him stand wide-eyed with wonder. Her lips made him think of the holy wine, pure drink, red as blood, and undefiled.
His restlessness began with the dawn. He rang the chapel4 bell, went through the services, with his thoughts wandering out and waiting expectantly outside the rest-house door. For the very first time the spirit of dissimulation5 entered Brother Martin’s life, prompting him to walk up and down the grassy6 space outside his cell, hands folded, head bent7, as though in meditation8.
He saw her door open. She came out, her black hair hanging loose, wished him a calm “good morning,” and went down toward the spring. She had gone to wash herself there, to dabble9 her hands in the water. Martin paced up and down.
She returned, disappeared into the rest-house, and there was silence—suspense. Martin Valliant kept passing the open doorway10, but he had not the courage to look in.
“Father Martin——”
He faced around with a guileless air, as though she had been very distant from his thoughts.
“Did you speak to me, Mistress——”
“And I have not told you my name! I am called Catharine Lovel. I wish to tarry here for some days, if St. Florence does not forbid it.”
Martin looked grave.
“I never heard that St. Florence had set a boundary to his charity,” he said.
“Then I am the more his debtor11 in the spirit. This is so sweet and calm a place. I come from a forest country, Father Martin.”
“It is a very wonderful country,” he agreed.
“And should be pleasant to one who has been vowed12 to a month’s silence?”
Again Martin agreed with her. She stood at gaze, her hands clasped in front of her.
“One cannot lose oneself with this moor13 as a guide post. I shall ride out, Father Martin, and go down into the woods.”
“In the valley there the beech14 trees are very noble,” he said; “I love them.”
“Sometimes, Father Martin, trees are nobler than men.”
He pondered those words of hers all day.
Dusk was falling before she returned. The brown horse’s ears hung limp, as though she had ridden him many miles, and his coat was stained with sweat. Martin Valliant had been standing15 in the doorway of his cell. He went forward to hold her horse.
“I so managed it that I lost myself,” she said.
Her face looked white in the dusk, and her eyes tired.
“I reached a river, a fine stream.”
“The Rondel. It runs a league away, and the woods are great and very thick.”
“That lured16 me on—perhaps. I found a ford17, and pushed my horse over, there are wild grasslands18 beyond all full of flowers.”
“I have never been so far,” he confessed.
“It is a great country, even wilder than my own. I saw as splendid a hart as ever swam a stream come down and cross the river. And now I am as hungry as though I had followed the hounds.”
He saw that she was weary.
“I will look to the horse.”
She glided19 down from the saddle.
“The poor beast has had to suffer for my whims20, father. He will bless you, no doubt. And so good-night to you; I shall be asleep almost before I have supped.”
Martin Valliant led the horse to the stable, took off the saddle and bridle21, and rubbed the beast down with a handful of hay. He found the animal muddied above the knees, and there were other matters to set Martin thinking. The fords of the Roding were floored with sand, for the Roding was a clean river and ran at a good pace. Of course, the mud might have come from some piece of
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