labour and patience the words emerged clearly. "I've seen no thief."
"How long have you been sitting there? Have you seen any man pass by here?"
"The night long," said the arduous voice. "And no one has passed by."
By the sound of it the two on foot had arrived by this time, out of breath. The four conferred in low tones. "He must have slipped aside into the trees and turned back," said one. "Turn and take the right of the road. We'll ride on to the barrier and make sure he's not wormed his way ahead in cover, and then come back and take the left side."
The horses stirred and stamped again, and trotted ahead. The two on foot must have turned back to retrace their steps among the trees, beating the bushes for their quarry as they went. There fell a long silence, which Joscelin was afraid to break.
"Stretch out and be easy," said the old man at last, without turning his head. "We cannot move yet."
"I have an errand I must do," said Joscelin, leaning close to the hooded ear to be heard. "For this respite God knows I thank you with all my heart, but I must somehow get to the abbey before daylight, or this liberty you've kept for me will not be worth keeping. I have a thing I must do there, for someone else's sake."
"What is that thing?" asked the old man equably.
"To prevent, if I can, this marriage they're making today."
"Ah!" said the patient, deliberate voice. "Wherefore? And by what means? You may not stir yet, they will be back, and they will look this way and must see all as before. An old leper who has preferred a night under the stars to the cover of a roof - nothing more." The grass rustled; it might have been the very slight stir of a sigh. "You understood what passed there? Are you afraid of leprosy, boy?"
"No," said Joscelin, and wavered and reconsidered. "Yes! I was, or I thought I was. I hardly know. I know I am more afraid of failing in what I must do."
"We have time," said the old man. "If you are willing to tell me, I am listening."
Only to such a one, chance met and instantly trusted, could Joscelin have poured out the whole load that weighed on his heart. Suddenly it seemed the most natural thing possible that he should confide without restraint, keep nothing back of his indignant love, the wrong done him, and the greater wrongs done to Iveta. In the middle of his narration the controlling hand pressed his knee for silence and stillness, as the two mounted men passed by again towards the town. And when they were gone, the last echo of hooves lost along the road, he resumed as if the thread had never been broken.
"And you have planned to hide yourself somewhere about the cloister," mused the old man, at the end of it, "and burst forth to challenge your sometime lord to single combat, and so affront him that he shall not be able to deny you and keep his face?"
"It is the only way I can see," said Joscelin, though put in such clear terms, he did not think too well of its chances.
"Then be in no haste about it," said Lazarus, "until daylight comes, for a clapper-dish and a hood and veil can make you faceless and nameless as well as another. One thing I can tell you. Huon de Domville did not lie in his bed this night. He rode out beyond here, turning right from this road, and I have been here every moment since, and unless he knows of another way back, he has not returned. I think he must ride back by the same way he rode out, and until he passes this place, no bridegroom will present himself at the altar. Between us, you and I can make shift to watch for him. If he comes! But how if he never comes?"
It was the strangest night Joscelin had ever passed, and the strangest dawn. Faint mist came with the light, and the rising sun peered through it overhead, while it lay in great swathes in the valley beyond the road. But no Huon de Domville came trotting back towards the bishop's house.
"Stay in hiding," said Lazarus at length, "until I come back." And he rose and went into the hospice, to return
"How long have you been sitting there? Have you seen any man pass by here?"
"The night long," said the arduous voice. "And no one has passed by."
By the sound of it the two on foot had arrived by this time, out of breath. The four conferred in low tones. "He must have slipped aside into the trees and turned back," said one. "Turn and take the right of the road. We'll ride on to the barrier and make sure he's not wormed his way ahead in cover, and then come back and take the left side."
The horses stirred and stamped again, and trotted ahead. The two on foot must have turned back to retrace their steps among the trees, beating the bushes for their quarry as they went. There fell a long silence, which Joscelin was afraid to break.
"Stretch out and be easy," said the old man at last, without turning his head. "We cannot move yet."
"I have an errand I must do," said Joscelin, leaning close to the hooded ear to be heard. "For this respite God knows I thank you with all my heart, but I must somehow get to the abbey before daylight, or this liberty you've kept for me will not be worth keeping. I have a thing I must do there, for someone else's sake."
"What is that thing?" asked the old man equably.
"To prevent, if I can, this marriage they're making today."
"Ah!" said the patient, deliberate voice. "Wherefore? And by what means? You may not stir yet, they will be back, and they will look this way and must see all as before. An old leper who has preferred a night under the stars to the cover of a roof - nothing more." The grass rustled; it might have been the very slight stir of a sigh. "You understood what passed there? Are you afraid of leprosy, boy?"
"No," said Joscelin, and wavered and reconsidered. "Yes! I was, or I thought I was. I hardly know. I know I am more afraid of failing in what I must do."
"We have time," said the old man. "If you are willing to tell me, I am listening."
Only to such a one, chance met and instantly trusted, could Joscelin have poured out the whole load that weighed on his heart. Suddenly it seemed the most natural thing possible that he should confide without restraint, keep nothing back of his indignant love, the wrong done him, and the greater wrongs done to Iveta. In the middle of his narration the controlling hand pressed his knee for silence and stillness, as the two mounted men passed by again towards the town. And when they were gone, the last echo of hooves lost along the road, he resumed as if the thread had never been broken.
"And you have planned to hide yourself somewhere about the cloister," mused the old man, at the end of it, "and burst forth to challenge your sometime lord to single combat, and so affront him that he shall not be able to deny you and keep his face?"
"It is the only way I can see," said Joscelin, though put in such clear terms, he did not think too well of its chances.
"Then be in no haste about it," said Lazarus, "until daylight comes, for a clapper-dish and a hood and veil can make you faceless and nameless as well as another. One thing I can tell you. Huon de Domville did not lie in his bed this night. He rode out beyond here, turning right from this road, and I have been here every moment since, and unless he knows of another way back, he has not returned. I think he must ride back by the same way he rode out, and until he passes this place, no bridegroom will present himself at the altar. Between us, you and I can make shift to watch for him. If he comes! But how if he never comes?"
It was the strangest night Joscelin had ever passed, and the strangest dawn. Faint mist came with the light, and the rising sun peered through it overhead, while it lay in great swathes in the valley beyond the road. But no Huon de Domville came trotting back towards the bishop's house.
"Stay in hiding," said Lazarus at length, "until I come back." And he rose and went into the hospice, to return
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