And then he discovered himself standing straight as a young ash tree, resting his hands on the top of the handle of the hoe, and staring over the hedge into a woman’s eyes. He could see her head, shoulders and bosom; the green hedge hid the rest of her. But if Martin had dared to scoff at Dame Nature, that good lady was quick and vigorous with her retort. She showed him this girl, black-haired, red-lipped, flushed with riding, sitting her horse with a certain haughtiness, her head held high, her white throat showing proudly. “You are Father Jude?” Martin could have stammered with a sudden, wondering awe of her. Her eyes were fixed on him questioningly, and with an intentness that heralded an incipient frown. “Father Jude is no longer here.” “Not here!” “He lies sick at Paradise.” The frown showed now on her forehead. Her eyes lifted and gazed beyond him, and Martin Valliant had never seen such eyes before. His mistrust of her had vanished, he knew not why. Paradise had no knowledge of such a creature as this. She had ridden out of the heart of a mystery, and her face was the face of June. “Fools!” She was angry, perplexed. And then she smiled down at Martin with quick subtlety. “Your pardon, father.” She smiled whole-heartedly as she took stock of his youth. “What am I saying! I have a vow of silence upon me, save that I may speak to such as you. I am a pilgrim. I had a fellow-pilgrim with me, but she fell sick at Burchester, and I rode on alone. Father Jude’s name was put in my mouth by the prioress of Burchester. Is there not a pilgrim’s rest-house here?” Martin Valliant was still full of his wonder at her beauty. “Assuredly. This is the chapelry of St. Florence. The good saint so willed it that all who passed this way should have food and lodging.” Her face had changed its expression. She showed a sudden reticence, a cold pride. “St. Florence has my thanks. Will you send your servant to take my horse?” He gaped at her, as though overcome by the thought that this creature of mystery was to move and breathe in the guest-house next his cell. He tried to save his dignity by taking refuge in sententiousness. “I am the servant of St. Florence and of all those who tarry here.” She glanced at him guardedly, and seemed to realize his unworldliness. “I shall be no great burden. A stall for the horse and a roof for my own head. I can look to my own horse, if you will show me the stable.” Martin let the hoe drop out of his hands. He went striding along the hedge as though some enchantment had fallen upon him. But she was out of the saddle by the time he reached the gate, and, by the way she carried herself, more than fit to deal with her own affairs. “That is the stable, there by the woodstack?” “Yes.” “Is the door locked? No? I thank you, good father.”