Mellis made her way through the crowd of mesne lords and gentlemen, looking neither to the right hand nor the left. They stood back for her, for she was proud, more pure in her strength than they. The moon hung clear and white and splendid in the sky, shining on her face and the plated steel half hidden by her hair. “So they would think him an outcast,” she said to herself. “My scorn is theirs for the asking.” Some instinct led her through the garden into the orchard, where the long grass was all patterned with the black shadows of the trees. She stood in the moonlight, and called softly: “Martin—Martin Valliant!” Old Swartz crept away, a dog grown mute, and wise in his silence. Martin’s face was all twisted with a spasm of pain, for he was fey that night with a mysterious forefeeling of great sorrow and despair. “Martin—Martin Valliant!” She came down through the orchard, and Martin rose to his feet. The moonlight through the trees shone on his harness, and betrayed him to her. He stood absolutely still, waiting for her to draw near. “Martin!” Her voice had a soft, wounded plaintiveness. “Why are you hiding here?” His face was all somber in the shadows. “I had a wish to be alone.” He could not bring himself to look at her, because of the new bitterness in his heart, and because her voice was so soft and luring. “What has happened to you, Martin?” She went close, looking in his face. “Tell me. Have I no right to know?” He answered her with strange gentleness, but his eyes would not meet hers. “Perhaps I have seen a vision, a glimpse of the world as it is. Some things are too beautiful to endure, for other men break them in pieces.” She drew her breath deeply. “Ah! Have these rough fools touched your pride? They can have my scorn for the asking. And are you nothing to me, or I to you? Have we not gone through the deeps together, and have you not carried my life in your hands? Man, what do these rough squires matter? Look into my eyes and see if there is shame in them.” He bowed his head. “Mellis—what am I but an outcast?” “Then I am an outcast also. But for me you would be chanting your Masses. And you have been very noble and good to me. Oh, Martin, Martin! this wounds my heart.” He gave a sudden cry, and fell on his knees before her. “God help me, but there is nothing else in the world but you. I cannot bear that for my sake you should even suffer pain.” She bent over him, her hands hovering close to his face. “Pain! What pain is there? And were it real—should I not bear it?”