from a chance word that marpasse let fall while they were burying isoult, grimbald discovered all that she knew concerning aymery and denise, and he made her tell the story. marpasse had been breaking up the ground with a sword, and grimbald using a shield for a shovel, scooped a shallow trough for the body wrapped in its scarlet surcoat. that labour together over the grave, and the way grimbald made her talk of herself and denise, brought marpasse and the parish priest to a sudden sense of comradeship.

with isoult laid to rest they trudged off together to lewes town, but could gain no sure news of aymery there, though grimbald found a sussex man, geoffrey de st. leger, who swore that the knight of the hawk’s claw had ridden in that last charge against prince edward’s company. grimbald and marpasse had already searched the ground in the dusk without coming upon denise’s grey gown. a truce had been called, and torches were moving to and fro over the battlefield like corpse candles in the darkness.

the parish priest and the bona-roba watched the night out under a hedge, and marpasse fell asleep while grimbald watched. they were up before dawn, however, and breaking bread as they went, they searched the scarred track along which simon’s knights had ridden in pursuit of the flying royalists. grimbald bent over many a body in the twilight, and though there were women lying dead and stiff upon the grass, denise was not among them, nor did they find aymery among the slain.

the dawn was just breaking when they came to the river; grey fog hung there; and it was very still. the dead were here also, horse and man, and grimbald saw that the richer bodies had been plundered, even stripped naked and left upon the grass. their search had lessened the chances, save what the grey river might be hiding under its shroud. but grimbald chose to be an optimist that morning, and swore, as though he had seen the thing in crystal, that neither aymery nor denise was under the quiet water. he chose the simplest explanation, and put it forward so confidently that marpasse believed also, and fell in with his plan. aymery had found denise, and taken her away with him out of reach of the storm.

“as sure as i live,” he said, “we shall find them at goldspur. it is not the first time that i have prophesied the truth.”

and marpasse accepted grimbald as a prophet, and he looked the part with his gaunt face and fiery eyes.

they were walking towards the bridge when a splashing sound came up the river, and a black boat glided out of the mist, driven along by a man who wielded a long pole. a second man was drawing in a rope, and there was something at the end thereof, for the rope was taut and straight, with drops of water falling from it. the first man shipped his pole, and went to help his comrade with the rope, nor had either of them noticed grimbald and marpasse.

a thing that glistened rose to the surface. the men reached over, and between them, dragged the body of a man in gilded harness into the boat. they grunted cheerfully over the catch, and disappeared below the gunwale. the boat lay in mid-stream, and there was the plash of the grapnel as one of the men heaved it out again into the river.

grimbald held up a hand to marpasse, slipped down the bank, and dropped quietly into the water. a few long strokes carried him under the boat’s stern. and the great brown head that appeared suddenly over the gunwale so scared the two spoilers of the dead that they gaped at grimbald, and lost the chance of knocking him back into the river. the bottom of the boat was littered with plunder from the bodies along the bank; and one of the men was cutting the rings from the hands of the knight they had fished up with the grapnel. grimbald scrambled in, axe in hand. but he looked so huge, and fierce, and fateful in the grey of the morning that the men jumped for it, and swam like water rats, leaving the parish priest lord of the spoil.

grimbald poled the boat to the bank, lifted the dead man out, and laid him on the grass. he knelt and said a prayer for him, while marpasse stood on guard with the axe, watching the two thieves who had crawled out on the near bank and were skulking behind a bush. grimbald ended his prayer, and stood up and shook himself like a great dog.

“providence is at work here,” he said; “my prophecy will come true.”

they climbed into the boat and ferried across, watched by the men who were waiting to recover their spoil. but grimbald cheated them of their desire, for he stove out the planks with the end of the pole, and pushed the boat out to sink in the deeper water.

“let it return to the dead,” he said. “those rogues shall catch no more fish to-day.”

grimbald and marpasse set out on their five-league trudge to goldspur, both of them being stout walkers, and eager to come to the end of the tale. these two warm, rough natures were quickly in sympathy, for grimbald discovered the “woman” in marpasse, and being nothing of the pharisee he had no exquisite dread of soiling his robes. marpasse talked to him on the way as she had never talked to a man before. grimbald was so strong and so honest that the woman’s eyes gleamed out at him approvingly. isoult’s death had stirred her deeply, following as it had on her comradeship with denise. marpasse put her life in its crude and simple colours before grimbald’s eyes, not justifying herself, but talking as though it helped her to talk to a priest who understood.

“it is just like climbing a ladder,” she said, “to get inside a castle. the good people above throw stones, and potsherds, and boiling oil. and if you get to the top—they try to pitch you down again. if i had my way i would have a door in the side of the world, and the poor drabs should be let in quietly, and put out to work to earn their bread.”

“sometimes it is very dull—being good,” said grimbald with a twinkle.

“it is often very dreary being sinful, father. give me a chance to choose, and i would have a fire-side, and a bed, and a broom to use, and a man to cuff me—at times—if he kissed me an hour afterwards. a smack on the cheek does a woman a world of good.”

“and a kiss on the mouth?” asked grimbald.

“oh, that makes the puddings turn out well. and i have a taste for puddings.”

grimbald’s prophetic instinct fulfilled itself that morning, for they were not a mile from goldspur village, and following a track that ran over a stretch of heathland between the woods, when they saw a man ride out from a woodland way. he was not a furlong from them, so near that they could see the red stains on the white cross sewn to his surcoat, and the way the reins were slack upon the horse’s neck. in fact, the horse seemed to carry the man, and not the man to guide the horse. it was aymery himself, grey-faced, battered, forlorn as a ship struggling home after a storm.

grimbald’s long legs left marpasse far behind. aymery smiled at him as a sick man smiles at the face of a friend. he had grown gaunt and haggard in a night, and the unshaven stubble on his chin showed black against his pallor.

“victory at lewes.”

grimbald took his bridle.

“and a wound—somewhere,” he said.

“wounds—plenty of them. i am tired, grimbald—tired as a dog.”

aymery left his horse to the priest, for it was as much as he could do to steady himself in the saddle by holding to the pommel with both hands. marpasse came to meet them, and aymery looked at her stupidly, as though his brain were clouded.

a faint gleam passed across his face as he recognised marpasse.

“i have killed him,” he said; “yes—it was on the edge of the woods—over yonder.”

he relapsed again into a half stupor, staring at marpasse with eyes that seemed heavy with sleep.

“denise?” she asked him.

he echoed her, slowly. marpasse nodded.

“denise was with gaillard—i killed him. she had disappeared when we had ended it,” and he looked at marpasse as though it was she who was wise in the matter, an appealing look like the appeal of a dumb child.

grimbald gave marpasse a most unpriestly wink.

“bed and bread,” he said in a whisper, “and good wine to wash it down. the oil is low in the lamp. keep it burning.”

marpasse understood, and was all cheerfulness.

“never was i better pleased by the thought of a corpse,” she said; “as for denise, she was born to run away—as i always tell her. she knows the woodways hereabouts, father, eh? to be sure. madame will not be long on the road.”

aymery was at the end of himself, and lay along his horse’s neck, his arms hanging down on either side. grimbald looked fierce, being combative where death, sickness, and the devil were concerned.

“hum—white as a clean dish clout!”

marpasse touched aymery’s cheek.

“asleep,” she said.

“speak out; no metaphors.”

“i speak what i mean—and your long words can go to the eel pond, father. he is asleep. what could be better? gaillard, messire gaillard, you met your match! and denise—the fool—ran away!”

she went close, kissed aymery’s neck, and then turned on grimbald with a defiant glare of the eyes.

“mayn’t i kiss a brave man?” she asked.

grimbald threw up his head and laughed.

“who said you ‘nay’?” he retorted; “you women are in such a hurry.”

“then i shall kiss you, father!”

“will you!” quoth he grimly.

goldspur manor house was still a mute gathering of charred posts, though some of the lodges and the barn had been rebuilt. aymery was taken that day to the priest’s house that stood on the edge of a glimmering birch wood, whose boles rose like silver pillars above the brown wattle fence about the church. grimbald carried him in in his arms, and laid him on his own bed. there was no focaria or servant, and marpasse was soon as busy as any hearth-ward. she found the aumbry where grimbald kept his oil and wine, gathered sticks from the wood lodge, lit a fire, and hung the iron pot on the hook. grimbald was stripping aymery of his harness, unfastening the gorget and greaves, peeling the heavy hauberk off him with much trouble, and unlacing the gambeson beneath. marpasse came in with the wine and the water-pot, for grimbald had his bed in the little room at the end of the great hall. she began to covet and handle some of the parish priest’s vestments that hung on pegs along the wall. marpasse’s brown hands made a white alb scream into strips for bandages. grimbald glanced round at her with philosophic consent.

“i shall never get such another,” he said.

“shall i put up an oath for you, father?”

“quiet, fool! his mother gave it me—five years ago.”

“it has washed well,” said marpasse.

and the alb was used to bind up aymery’s wounds.

much loss of blood from a few deep flesh cuts, that was the main mischief, and grimbald and marpasse soon had him under the coverlet. he was half asleep all the while they were handling him, heavy and stupid with long hours in the saddle, the death tussle with gaillard, and lack of food. there was no epic heroism in the episode. aymery was put to bed like a small boy, and the washing that marpasse had given him had made the illusion more complete. beyond making him drink some wine they did not trouble him, but left him to have his sleep out, and wake—if god willed it—hungry.

marpasse’s thoughts turned to denise, but she and grimbald were sufficiently carnal to rejoice in a good round meal of bread and mead and bacon. they sat at the table with the door of the house wide open, so that they had a glimpse of the green and mysterious world beyond. grimbald had little to say, and marpasse was very hungry, and so little overawed by a seat at a priest’s table that her hunger walked boldly, and would not be abashed. and grimbald was amused by it, and commended the healthiness of the instinct, the more so because it proved its value in the person of a very comely woman with a sunburnt face, clear eyes, and a mass of tawny hair.

they began at last to talk of denise, and marpasse made grimbald take her to the door, and point her out the way to the beech wood where denise had had her cell. grimbald could show her the wood itself, a green cloud adrift across the blue of the may sky. marpasse saw to her shoes, dropped half a loaf into her bag, and made it plain to grimbald whither she was going.

“birds fly back to the same haunts in the spring,” she said; “nor do i see, father, why you alone should be a prophet.”

grimbald looked at her as a wise man of five and forty looks at a mischievous yet lovable girl.

“go—and prove it,” he said; “i shall get down to the village and send the people out to search the woods. not a word to them—mind you—of all that has happened in the past.”

marpasse showed the curve of a strong brown chin.

“am i so much a fool?” she asked.

grimbald appeared to consider the question. he did not give his verdict till marpasse had reached the gate.

“death alone saves us from being fools,” he said, and his eyes had a seriousness as he watched her go.

marpasse went down the hill, leaving the village on her left, and crossing the valley, climbed the slope to the great beech wood. the trunks were black and smooth under a splendour of green that shone in the sunlight. the earth still seemed virginal, for the flowers that had been touched by the bees were lost in the rich, rank lustiness of early summer. the valleys rippled with gold, and the may trees were still in bloom, and full of infinite fragrance.

marpasse made her way through the wood, and came at last to the place where the beech boles stood like great pillars about an open court. there was a blur of colour against the green, the pink blush of an early rose that had run in riot over the wattle fence, and flowered like a rose tree in a garden of shiraz. the dark brown thatch of the cell showed ragged holes where birds had burrowed in and built their nests. the grass stood knee deep in the glade, grass that seemed asleep in the warm sunlight, dreamed over by moon-faced daisies bewitched by the song of the bees.

marpasse had taken cover behind the trunk of a beech tree. she had seen a track in the long grass where someone had passed but a short while ago. and marpasse’s eyes beamed in her brown face. her prophecy had also been fulfilled, for there, under the shade of the rose tree she saw denise amid the grass, her knees drawn up, and her chin resting in the palms of her two hands.

marpasse watched her awhile, indulging her own philosophy much like a nurse commenting upon a child.

“heart of mine, but somebody should be here in my place. what a sad, white face, to be sure, and what eyes—as though the whole world were on its death bed! we will change all that, my dear. you shall be the colour of the rose bush before the day is out.”

she slipped from behind the tree, and crossed the grass, singing a song that she had often sung upon the road. and she saw denise’s face start up into the sunlight out of its mood of mists and sadness. a tendril of the rose tree caught denise’s hair as marpasse pushed open the rotting gate.

marpasse laughed, happy, yet with a lovable shyness in her eyes.

“see what it is to be desired,” said she, “even the rose tree must catch at that hair of yours. heart of mine—how you tremble!”

she took denise and held her, kissing her mouth.

“so you ran away—for the last time, hey—when st. george had finished slaying the dragon! that was a mad thing to do, my dear. you should have stopped to succour him, should he have been wounded.”

denise’s brown eyes searched marpasse’s face, looking beyond the other’s playfulness.

“gaillard?” she asked.

“dead, heart of mine; the best thing that ever he did was to die. those brown eyes of yours need not look so frightened, st. george has been put to bed to sleep till he is hungry.”

marpasse sat down under the rose tree, and drew denise into her lap.

“try to smile a little, my dear,” she said, “for summer is coming in, and the cuckoo is singing.”

denise did not rest long in marpasse’s lap, nor would she touch any of the bread that marpasse had brought with her. she drew aside in the grass, turned her face away, and sat staring into the shadowy spaces under the trees. marpasse watched her, and let the mood take its course. she could be patient with denise as yet, knowing that suffering and sorrow leave the heart sore and easily hurt.

denise spoke at last in a low voice, still keeping her face hidden from marpasse.

“where is he?” she asked.

“down yonder—in the priest’s house.”

“wounded?”

“he killed gaillard, heart of mine, and gaillard was a good man at his weapons.”

her vagueness did not work as a lure. denise did not swoop to it; so marpasse told the truth.

“there is nothing to fear. messire aymery was not born to die a bachelor.”

“does he know that i am here?”

“how should he, heart of mine, when i left him asleep—tired out, and came up here at a venture.”

denise fell again into a long silence. there was something in the poise of her head—and in the way she sat motionless in the long grass that betrayed troubled thoughts and deep self-questioning. denise had the mirror of her life before her, and found it full of shadows, and of reflections that she could not smother.

“marpasse.”

“heart of mine.”

“he must never see me again; no—i could not bear it.”

“god help us now! why, it is the month of may—and the sun is shining——”

“it is the truth, marpasse. how can i—i——? look; it all happened here! how can i put that out of my heart?”

marpasse stretched out a hand and touched her.

“come, come, look at the sun, not at the shadows.”

“it is not in me—to forget everything.”

“even that the man loves you?”

denise turned on her suddenly with eyes full of a fierce light.

“yes, and should i take his love, i—who cannot go to him as a woman should! it is not in my heart, marpasse, whatever you may say. god help me, but i love him better than that!”

her passion spent itself, and she lay down in the grass, covering her face, and trying to hide a rush of tears. marpasse bent over her, moved by great pity, and yet impatient with denise for pulling so simple a thread into a tangle. but denise would not listen to marpasse. she was even angry with her own tears.

“no, no—let me be; i am a fool; it will soon pass.”

marpasse grimaced.

“why will you walk on thorns?” she said; “some people can never satisfy their consciences!”

denise still hid her face in the long grass.

“it is for aymery’s sake.”

“bah!” quoth marpasse; “you will give him a stone, will you—when he is hungry.”

she got up from under the rose tree, and went towards the gate.

“i have left you the bread,” she said, “and it is better to eat bread and be contented than to look for rents in one’s own soul. messire aymery shall not know that you are here, if you will promise me one thing.”

denise raised herself upon her elbow.

“stay here till to-morrow. i will put it all before father grimbald. he is a man with a head and a heart. for the rest, my dear, put that bread into your body and sleep ten hours by the sun.”