“No, I am brave. And there is no one here to see us part, and to gape and wonder concerning us.” “True, oh queen! And so, farewell.” He tossed his cap at her, laughed, and went off whistling. And a sudden strange sadness assailed her. She held her horse in and sat there watching him. He was so gallant, so debonair, this brother of hers. And she would never set eyes on him again. No prophetic instinct could tell her that. _Chapter X_ Brother Geraint made his way through the dusk to Widow Greensleeve’s house at Cherry Acre. It was a warm, still night, and the scent of the white thorn blossom in the hedges hung heavy on the air. He came to the gate and stood listening. There was no sound to be heard save the rush of the river through the sluices of the mill. Geraint pushed the gate open and peered about under the apple trees. “Good evening to you, holy sir.” Some one was laughing close to him in the dusk. “Who’s there?” “What, not know my voice?” “It is you?” “Come and see. Have you forgotten the seat by the hedge?” He thrust the apple boughs aside, and saw the white kerchief that covered her shoulders. “Where is the girl?” “Saying her prayers somewhere. I have not seen her since noon. She is touched in the head, and goes wandering for hours together.” Geraint sat down on the bench beside the dame. He was in a sullen mood, and very bitter. “The fool! Send her back to the moor.” “She swears she will not go.” “This Martin Valliant is the devil. She could make nothing of him?” “Why, my good man, it was he who made a Magdalene of her. She came back crying, ‘He is a saint. There is no man in Paradise fit to lace his shoes!’” Geraint cursed under his breath. “A pest take both of them!” She rapped his shoulder sharply with her knuckles. “A word of warning, Dom Geraint. If the man is dangerous, the girl may prove more so. I tell you he has worked a miracle with her, and women are strange creatures. She says openly, ‘Some day Martin Valliant will come down from the moor, and make an end of the wickedness in Paradise.’” “She says that!” “Aye, and dreams of it. I tell you women are strange creatures when love has its way. She is all for turning anchoress, and praying all day to St. Martin. For half a cup of milk she would go running through the valley, screaming the truth. Be very careful, Dom Geraint.” He leaned forward, glowering and biting his nails. “We have made a poor throw, dame. And here is that pestilent pedant of an abbot threatening us with a visitation. We have heard of the storm he raised at Birchhanger; he trampled on the whole priory there, had one of the brothers hanged by the judge on circuit. Privilege of clergy, forsooth! The Church is to be regenerated!” He rocked to and fro. “And this Martin Valliant, the very man to play the holy sneak! A pretty pass indeed! A cub we took in and nurtured!” The woman touched his sleeve.