“Will you not sit down, Mistress Dale?” “I have not the heart to feel weary.” “It is very still and calm by the great cross up yonder. I will spread a cloak for you. We must speak of certain things, you and I.” A new manhood spoke in him. She seemed to question it, and to wonder at the change in him. “I am suspect, and have made you share my outlawry—is that it?” He answered with sudden passion. “No.” She surrendered to him of a sudden. “The cross? Oh, very well. What have you to say to me?” “What a man with the heart of a man might say. Am I so poor a thing that I cannot take part in a quarrel?” “Ah!” He turned abruptly, went to the cell, and came back with a heavy winter cloak. “The dew is heavy on such a night.” “Yes.” They walked side by side to the great cross, with a sudden and subtle sense of comradeship drawing them together. Martin spread the cloak on the grass at the foot of the cross. She sat down with her back to the beam, and looked up at him in the darkness. “You told me your man’s name—not the priest’s.” “Valliant.” “You are not the son of old Roger Valliant?” “He was my father.” Her eyes gave a gleam. “Son of that old fire-eater! Strange!” “He was a man of blood, my father.” She looked at him with a new interest, a new curiosity. His bigness took on a different meaning. “A great fighter and a fine man-at-arms, though he fought for pay. And he made a priest of you!” Martin felt her veiled scorn of all men-women, and his flesh tingled. “I have never questioned his wisdom.” “Never yet! Have you ever heard the trumpets calling? But what am I saying? Yet men must fight, Father Martin, sometimes, or be dishonored.” “It is possible,” he confessed. “Bishops and abbots have ridden into battle before now.” “True. The cause may sanctify the deed.” Her bitterness returned of a sudden. She seemed to clasp her grief, and press her lips to it with fanatical passion. “Son of old Valliant—listen. Your father would have understood these words of mine. Why do I not lie down and weep? Why do I thirst to go on living? Because my heart cries out against a great wrong—my wrong. Yes, I am a wild wolf—an eagle. This is a world of teeth and talons; your father knew it, and lived by his sword. And I tell you, Martin Valliant, that I shall fight to the death—hate to the death. My holy wine is the blood of my brother—and I am not ashamed.” He stood swaying slightly, with a tumult, like the clashing of swords, in his brain. “Does the soul of the father dwell in the son?” he asked himself. He clenched his hands and answered her. “You will tarry here, Mistress Dale, so long as you may please. No man shall lay a hand upon you. The Church can protect—with the sword of the spirit.” By her silence he knew that his words rang hollow. “I would rather have old Valliant’s sword,” she said grimly; “but I thank you, Father Martin. My need may be fierce, God knows!” _Chapter XV_