marpasse of the blue gown had fallen in with old friends on the way to tonbridge, where the king had taken the castle of gilbert de clare, and these same friends, ragamuffins all of them, were following the glittering chaos of the king’s host on the road to the sea. there would be plunder to be had if st. nicholas would only persuade king henry to take and sack the cinque port towns; and all the beggars, cut-throats and strollers in the kingdom rolled in the wash of the king’s host, terribly joyful over the happenings that might give them bones to pick.

the passing of fifty thousand armed men, to say nothing of the baggage rabble, was no blessing to the country folk whom it concerned. lords, knights, men-at-arms, bowmen, scullions, horse-boys, and harlots went pouring southwards in the may sunshine, ready to thieve whatever came to hand. king paunch ruled the multitude, for the host ate up the land, and called like a hungry rookery “more, more!” and since a hungry mob is an ill-tempered one when once its patience has leaked out of its tired toes, the king’s followers began to grow very rough and cruel before they had marched five leagues. hunger does not stand on ceremony, and such brutal things were done that the country folk took to the woods and swore death to any straggler. bludgeon, and axe, and bow took toll of the king’s host, and many a rowdy was caught and left grinning at the heavens, with his stiff toes in the air.

now marpasse and her friends were as hungry as the rest, and coming as they did, like fowls late for feeding time, their genius for theft was developed by necessity. yet it is not so easy to steal when everything eatable has been stolen, and when a crossbow bolt may come burring from behind a wood-stack. none the less, marpasse and her company were in luck not ten miles from tonbridge town. they saw a sow feeding on the edge of a beech wood close to the road. there was much pannage in the neighbourhood, and marpasse and her comrades tucked up their skirts, and went a-hunting, and were blessed with the sight of the black backs of a whole drove of swine.

great and grotesque was the joy that hounded and hunted through the beech wood, a mob of men-at-arms, beggars, boys, and women trampling the bluebells and the brown and crackling bracken. they shouted, laughed, and cursed as they rounded up the swine, and chased them hither and thither amid the trees. god pan and his minions went tumbling over tree roots after the black beasts that bolted, and squealed, and flickered like grotesque shadows under the boughs of the beeches.

marpasse, her skirts tucked up, and her knife flashing, shouted and ran with the lustiest till the sweat rolled into her eyes. as she stood to get her breath, a fat sow came labouring by with a young pig close to her haunches. chasing them came a long, loose-limbed boy, his hair over his face, his mouth a-gape, his thin legs bounding, striding, and ripping through the bracken. he came up with the chase close to marpasse, and threw himself on the young porker as a leopard might leap upon a deer. brown boy and black hog rolled in a tangle into a clump of rotting bracken, and marpasse, holding her sides, laughed at the tussle, and then ran on after the sow.

the sow, grunting and labouring, led marpasse away from the rout, and back towards the road. marpasse, intent on bringing the dame to book for supper, ran on till she came suddenly into a glade with a slant of sunshine pouring through it, and the open land and the road showing at one end thereof. marpasse followed the sow no farther, for she had stumbled on another adventure that showed more importunity.

marpasse saw a woman in grey leaning against the trunk of a tree. not ten paces from her stood an old black boar, with the broken shaft of a spear protruding from one shoulder, and a broad trickle of blood running down his left fore-leg into the grass. the beast tottered as he stood, swinging his head from side to side, his little eyes malevolent, his wiry tail twisting with savage spite.

marpasse gave a whistle, and looked like one who has run against a ghost. she saw the boar make a dash at denise, denise, who was playing hide-and-seek for her life with him round the tree. the beast missed her, and came to earth, only to struggle up, lurch round, and charge once more.

marpasse clutched her knife, and made a dash for the tree. the boar had missed his blow again, and stood, resting, still dangerous despite the spear head in his side. marpasse gained the tree with its roots clawing the soil. she gasped out a few words to denise like a breathless swimmer joining a comrade on a rock in the thick of a boiling sea.

“may marvels never cease! you, child, you, as i shall live to kill pigs! lord, now, keep an eye on this limb of a black satan!”

she peered round the tree trunk, and pushed denise round it as the boar charged again, white tusks showing, snout bloody, his little eyes like two live coals. he swerved and missed marpasse, but she was on him before he could recover and turn. the knife went home where six inches of steel might reach the heart, and marpasse, springing aside to escape the mad side slash of the tusks, saw that the gentleman had the coup de grâce. he rolled over, struggled up again on his belly, scraped the earth with his fore trotters, and then wallowed amid the beech leaves. marpasse sat down at the foot of the tree, panting and laughing, her brown face red and healthy. she threw the knife aside, caught denise by the skirt, and pulled her down lovingly into her lap.

“god alive,” she gasped, “what a girl it is! am i always to be rescuing you from gascons, and from pigs?”

marpasse was quite joyous. she kissed denise on the mouth, and then held her away from her, and looked at her with blue eyes that shone.

“heart of mine, is it you in the flesh, my dear? why, we left you for dead, sir aymery and i! and mightily gloomy he was too, poor lording. to think of it, that i should fall on you in the middle of a wood, while i was chasing an old sow!”

though she was very voluble, marpasse’s eyes were scanning denise as one looks at a friend after a long sickness. marpasse’s eyes were very quick. she could have told the number of wrinkles on denise’s face, had there been any. but marpasse saw something there much more sinister than wrinkles.

“well, sister,” said she, “here is indeed a miracle. but i am not so strong as the lord on the black horse, so please to sit on the grass and let me get my breath. now for the story. how did st. helena and all the saints heal you, and how do you come to be here?”

denise slipped aside from marpasse, and sat down at the foot of the tree. it was a hard, brooding look about her eyes that had struck marpasse. things had not gone with pious facility. marpasse could tell that by denise’s silence, and by the half-sullen expression of her face.

“your knife turned between my ribs, marpasse,” she said, “i was a fool to bungle so easy a stroke; i had only to lie still, eat and sleep.”

marpasse clapped her hands.

“this is gratitude, and i swaddled you up like a baby! how is it that you are not still lying abed, and eating and sleeping? you look thin, eh, and what does sir black horse know about it all? lord, but what a lot of running away you have done in your life! so you fell out with the pious folk, was that it? i could never abide the smell of a nun.”

she pinched denise’s cheek, watching her narrowly, for marpasse had learnt to use her wits, and the philosophy that she had learnt upon the road.

“well, my dear, what happened?”

“i ran away.”

“what a soldier you would make! madame ursula was too good a woman. they are all too good for us, my dear; that is where the mischief comes, they tread on us, and expect us to be meek and grateful.”

marpasse grew serious and intent. she looked steadily at denise, and then reached out and caught her hands.

“no more jesting,” she said, “look in my face, sister. i have learnt to read a face.”

she held both denise’s hands, and drew her a little towards her. for a moment they were silent. then marpasse pressed denise’s hands, sighed, and allowed herself a bluff round oath.

“curse them,” she said, “curse their godliness. so you told them the whole tale.”

denise hung her head.

“messire aymery told ursula.”

“the fool! too much in love to be wise, i warrant. come now, my dear, love is great of heart, but love is blind, and love talks when it should shut its mouth. show me the way out of the wood.”

she drew denise close to her, so that her head was on her shoulder. yet for the moment denise seemed cold and mute. marpasse kissed her on the mouth, and the one woman’s lips unsealed the other’s soul. before long marpasse had drawn the whole tale from her, and marpasse looked fierce over it, and yet more fierce when denise betrayed the bitterness that had poisoned her heart.

“god in heaven, child,” she broke in suddenly, “do you know what you are saying?”

“i know what you are, marpasse. they were ready to whip me; i had no pity.”

marpasse set her teeth.

“this life, the devil pity you! for me, yes, but you! i have a brazen face, a conscience like leather, and talons that can tear. but you! bah, you would kill yourself in a month.”

she thrust denise away from her, as though thrusting her from some influence that was dangerous and to be feared. denise did not resist her, but sat hanging her head, mute and obstinate, her eyes sweeping up now and again to the face of the woman beside her.

“i am weary of it all,” she said, “they made the soul sick and bitter in me.”

marpasse sat with her chin on her fists, her forehead one great frown.

“ssh, and you thought of me, and the road! am i such a damned witch as that!”

“you do not curse, and preach.”

marpasse turned on her with sudden, fierce sincerity.

“yes, i do not preach, because i am down in the ditch, but i know what the mud is like, and i do not want you with me. bah, let me think. what shall i tell you, that you had better be as dead as the black boar there, before you take to the road.”

marpasse hugged her knees with her arms, staring straight before her, and working her teeth against her lower lip. denise kept silence, hanging her head, and flying in the face of her own bitterness like a bird that dashes itself against a window at night.

marpasse awoke suddenly from her musings, and caught denise by the hood of her cloak. she twisted her hand into the grey cloth, held denise at arm’s length, and threw one word straight into her face.

denise’s eyes flashed. she reddened from throat to forehead, while marpasse watched her as a physician might watch the workings of some violent drug. presently the brown eyes faltered, and grew clouded with the infinite consciousness of self. marpasse burst into a loud, harsh laugh. the next moment she had her arms about denise.

“soft fool, the word stings, eh? you are innocent enough; it is all temper, and anger and discontent. your conscience answered to the sting. i throw your own word in your face, and you redden like an agnes. no, no, you are not made to be one of us, thank god!”

denise felt this big woman’s brown arms tightly about her. a great spasm of emotion had gathered in marpasse’s throat. she held denise with a straining, inarticulate tenderness, as a mother might hold a child.

“heart of mine,” said she, “god forgive me for throwing that word in your face. it was the slap of a wet cloth on the cheek of one about to faint. look up, sister, listen to me, by the holy blood, i have the truth to tell.”

marpasse was trembling with the passion in her.

“take my knife again, denise, before that! do i not know, stroller and slut that i am! no, no, not that, not the dregs of other folks’ cups, not the shame and the sneers, and the curses thrown back in defiance. why should these good folk drive us down to hell, why should their fat faces make cowards of us? there, i have been the coward, take the truth from me, and be warned, heart of mine. better death, i say, before the ditch, for it is death in a ditch that we wretches come to. brave it out, sister, and for god’s love keep your heart from bitterness, and from poisoning its own good blood.”

she still held denise close to her.

“what did the woman st. aguecheek say? bah, all lies, i tell you. such cow-eyed women lie for the sake of piety. the man say that of you? i know better. come, denise, listen to me; i know a man when i have looked him in the eyes.”

she turned denise’s face to hers and kissed her.

“that was a clean kiss,” she said, “and by its cleanness i’ll swear that beldam ursula lied. what of messire aymery? a man, child, a rock man with an arm that can smite. grace be with me, but he would have given you his own heart to mend your broken one. i spoke with him, and i know.”

denise lay at rest in marpasse’s lap.

“why should ursula have lied?” she asked.

“why do dogs eat grass, and vomit? what! i know the woman, eyes that see the point of a pin and miss the moon, and a tongue like a clacker in a cherry tree. love is lord of all, my dear, and what does that beldam know of love? messire aymery had his heart in his mouth that night. i judge that he let the old crow peck at it, and she took the pieces and poisoned them, and pushed them into your mouth. go to now! have a little faith.”

she looked into denise’s eyes and saw a change in them. a more dewy and credulous april had followed a dry and stormy march. marpasse’s hand had stopped the former wound. she was healing the wound now in denise’s soul.

“god grant that you are right, marpasse.”

“better, my dear, better. lie in my arms and think them a man’s, and that man as honest as ever loved a woman. may i die in a ditch if i am mistaken! and now, what’s to do, as the sluggard says when all the rest have been three hours a-mowing.”

denise slipped out of marpasse’s lap, and sat down close to her, but not so close that their bodies touched. this act of hers seemed to betray that she had come by her stronger self again. marpasse’s scolding had set her upon her feet.

“i shall stay with you,” she said simply.

marpasse opened her mouth wide, a black circle of mute expostulation.

denise looked in her eyes.

“why not both of us?” she asked.

marpasse’s mouth still stood open as though to scoff at her own redemption. denise closed it with her own.

“there is a clean kiss,” she said, “let us keep it for each other.”

and marpasse caught her to her, and was a long while silent.

whatever these two women may have said to one another, the fact was proven that marpasse did not rejoin her band of vagabonds that night, for she and denise sat on under the tree, and counted up the money that they could boast between them. they were like a couple of girls talking over some new dress, their heads close together, and their hearts lighter than they had been for many a day. but marpasse had her whims. she would not mix her money with denise’s, but kept it apart with a sort of scorn, handling it gingerly as though the coins were hot.

moreover marpasse had a practical nature, and an attitude towards the ways and means of life that betokened that they were the accursed riddles that gods put to men each inevitable day. in truth marpasse’s life had been one long riddle, and she had grown sick of seeking to solve it, and had put the enigma out of her mind.

“heart of mine,” said she, “we are very much on a dust heap, so far as i can gather. my mouth was made to eat and drink! i cannot turn beast like the king did and eat grass. i have a little bread here in my bag,” and she brought out the small sack that she carried slung to her girdle under her cloak.

denise was drinking in new hope.

“we have the money,” she said, “we can buy food, and i have enough for to-night.”

“innocent, there is not a loaf to be bought for miles round. the king’s paunch would have made short work of the very trees, only they are too tough. and a word in your ear, treasure your money as though it were your blood. for when a woman is starving, and her pocket is empty, the devil comes in with a grin, and offers to pay for a meal.”

“how can we get more money?”

marpasse grimaced.

“we must go as mendicants,” she said. “i will thieve an old cloak, and cover up my colour. at all events, here is our lord the pig. we will make some use of him. if you are dainty, go and sit on the far side of the tree.”

marpasse turned butcher that night, nor was it the first time that she had used a knife on a carcase, for people who live by their wits go poaching at times, even after the king’s deer. marpasse had no intimate knowledge of the charter, or the forest laws, save that she had known men who had been caught, and mutilated. being strong and skilful she had a good skinful of meat beside her before the dusk came down. then she cut a hazel stake, slung the skin with the meat on it, and going down to a stream that crossed the road, washed the boar’s blood from her hands and arms, and came back clean and smiling.

“silver john will soon be up,” she said, nodding towards the east; “if he would only drop us a few coins the colour of his face, i should feel the happiest beggar in the kingdom. come along with you. we will tramp a little farther from my gossips. if you fell in with them you might not like their tongues.”

denise and marpasse set out together, keeping a little distance from the road, and walking under the shadows of the trees. soon the moon came up, and made the may woods magical, and full of a mystery that was clean and pure. nightingales sang in the thickets, and the scent of the dew on the grass and dead leaves came with the perfume of wild flowers out of the dusk.

marpasse was in a happy mood despite a day’s tramp, and the adventure with the boar.

“i have a feeling in me,” she said, “that silver john looks at us kindly out of the sky. throw us a penny, good lord moon, or some hair out of your silver beard. hear how the birds are singing. they shall sing a merry jingle into our pockets.”

denise walked beside marpasse with a smile of peace and of human nearness stealing upon her heart. and the moon who looked down on the world must have been as wise as the breadth of his solemn face. “strange,” he may have thought, “here are a saint and a stroller hand in hand, comforting one another, and making the night mellow!” but they were both women who had suffered as only women suffer, and the wise moon may have understood life, and sped them on with a glimmer of good luck.

marpasse’s sense of a blessing that was to be, saw its fulfilment as in the magic of an eastern tale. they had walked a mile or more, and were looking about them for shelter for the night, when marpasse stood still to listen, with one hand at her ear.

“ssh,” said she, “what’s in the wind?”

it was the sound of a bell that she and denise heard, a faint melancholy ripple like the sound of falling water in the stillness of the night. sometimes it ceased and then broke out again, coming no nearer, nor dwindling into the distance.

“a chapel bell?”

marpasse shook her head.

“no, nor a cow bell either. poor soul, i know the sound of it. that bell has a voice if ever a bell had.”

she listened awhile, and then touched denise’s arm.

“it comes from yonder, there, by that black clump of yews. a leper’s bell, or i have never been a sinner.”

they went towards the thicket of yews that stood there as though a black cloud covered the face of the moon. the sound of the bell grew more importunate and human. marpasse whispered to denise.

“it is the death toll,” she said, “i have heard such a sound before at night. the poor souls do not like to die alone in the dark. and those who hear the bell sometimes take pity.”

stretched at the foot of the yew tree with the black plumes curving overhead, marpasse and denise found an old man whose face was as white as the cloak he wore. a hand was rocking to and fro ringing the leper bell, whose melancholy sound seemed to die away with the moonlight into the midnight of the yews.

marpasse bent over him, she had seen too much of the rougher aspects of life to be greatly afraid of a leper.

“hallo, father,” she said, “here is company for you, you can stop your ringing.”

the man’s arm fell like a snapped bough, and the bell came to the earth with a dull, metallic rattle. the skull face, unmasked now that the end was near, betrayed that the bell carrier had been starved by the famine that the king’s host had left behind them in those parts. he was blind and deaf with the death fog, nor did he know that marpasse was near him till she spoke.

“good soul, have pity.”

he turned his blind face towards marpasse.

“i am going yonder out of the world, and it is bad to be alone when the evil spirits are abroad, and to hear no prayer spoken. i rang my bell, good soul, for st. chrysostom, he of the golden mouth, promised me that i should not die alone in the dark.”

marpasse sat down beside him, and beckoned denise to her.

“rest in peace, brother. what would comfort you?”

the man lay very still, with a face like ivory. he scarcely seemed to breathe.

“a pater noster,” he said presently, “i cannot come by a prayer, for the words run to and fro in my head like rabbits in a warren.”

marpasse looked at denise.

“here is a sister who knows all the prayers,” she said.

“ah, there is the smell of good meat a-cooking in a prayer. i saw the host through a leper squint not a month ago. pray, good souls, and i will ask the lord christ to shrive me.”

denise knelt in the grass, with marpasse huddled close to her, and spoke prayers for the leper’s lips, and found comfort and sweetness for her own soul in the praying. presently the man held up a shaking hand, and made the sign of the cross in the air.

“good souls,” he asked them, speaking as though he had a bone in his throat, “unfasten my girdle from about my body.”

marpasse’s hands answered his desire. the girdle had a leather pouch fastened to it, and the pouch was heavy. marpasse gave it into his hands, and he laid it against his mouth, and then held it towards denise.

“i would rather you had it, sister, than some begging friar. there is money in it, the alms of five years, and god bless the charitable. take it, good souls. dead men want no gold, though you will have candles burnt, and prayers put up for peter the leper.”

he felt for his bell and they heard a great sigh come out of his body like the sound of a spirit soaring away on invisible wings. the bell gave a last spasmodic tinkle that was muffled and smothered by the grass. then all was still, save for a light breeze that stirred the black boughs of the yews.

denise knelt there awhile in prayer. marpasse had gone aside and had cut down a yew bough with her knife, and was shaping the end thereof into the shape of a narrow spade. she began to turn the sods up clear of the roots of the trees, and denise came and watched her, holding the dead man’s girdle in her hands.

it took marpasse till midnight to scratch a shallow grave. they laid the leper in it, with his bell in his hand, and his staff beside him, and covered him with sods and boughs.

then marpasse and denise lay down under a tree and slept in each other’s arms. they did not look into the pouch that night, for the nearness of death and the infinite pathos thereof possessed them.

and when denise opened the pouch next morning, a rattle of silver came tumbling out, with here and there a piece of gold that shone like the yellow flower of the silverweed in the midst of its dusty foliage. marpasse’s blue eyes stared hard at the money. both she and denise were silent for a minute.

“poor soul! we will put up prayers for him.”

marpasse hugged her bosom.

“god see to it,” she said. “the tide turned when the old man’s ship put out over the dark sea.”