Then began days and weeks of travel, the like of which Alan had not known. He had gone from one place to another in such company as offered, many a time, but here were folk who knew every road and every inn, beguiled the hours with songs and jests and stories, and made the time pass like a holiday. He found that his knowledge of the out-of-door world interested Josian more than the ballads and tales of the others. He often rode at her side for an hour or more, pointing out to her the secret quick life of woodland and meadow, and finding perhaps that she already knew the bird, squirrel, marmot or hare, by another name. “London is well enough,” he said one day, “but 'tis not for me. I could never live grubbing in the dark there like a mouldiwarp.” Josian's delicate brows drew together. “Mouldi--what strange beast is that, Al-an?” and Alan laughed and explained that it was a mole. It was at noon of one of the long fragrant days of early summer, while the travelers rested in the forest, that Josian spoke of the jester once more. In the green stillness of the deep woods, birds singing and shy delicate blossoms gemming the moss, the fierce and savage past was like a dream. “Father Stephen gave me a packet that last night,” she said. “He gave Giovanni gold for the journey, but this parcel he said I must carry myself and show to you when I thought fit. I wonder what it can be?” Alan took the packet and turned it over. It was sealed with a device of Greek letters. “That is my father's signet,” the girl added. “Here is his ring,” and she drew from under her bodice a man's ring, hung on a slender gold chain, the stone a great emerald carved with the Greek “AEI”--“Always.” Alan cut the cord of the packet and handed it to her. “It is not for me to open it,” he said. She unfolded, tenderly and reverently, the wrappings of parchment and oiled silk, and disclosed a compact manuscript closely written on the thinnest leaves, in a firm clear hand. Lifting two or three of the pages she read eagerly and then looked up, her eyes alight with wondering joy. “Here are all the most precious of his writings, Al-an!” she cried, “the secrets that were in all the books that were lost--written clearly so that I myself can read them! Oh, it is like having him come back to speak to us--and Father Stephen, too--here by ourselves in the forest! And now you will know all the secrets of his work, for they are written here.” Alan's face had gone whiter than the parchment. Here indeed was the treasure he had come to seek. And it was Josian's free gift. But that was not all. “Josian,” he said, not putting out his hand even to touch the precious parcel, “you must not give away these manuscripts so lightly. They are worth much gold, child--they are a rich dowry for you. You must wait until you see Tomaso the physician, and he will tell you what is best to do with them.”