Back in a great amber twilight to smithy and huts. In the morning anvil and iron and hammer. Glow of fire, sweeping past of wold wind. A man on a bay horse, a man behind him riding a black mare, came to the smithy. Richard Englefield, looking up, met full the eyes of Somerville. He knew him, remembering him with Abbot Mark, coming to view him at work, at Silver Cross. He felt in his hands again a silver bowl, around it silver vine leaves. Somerville drew his breath and moistened his lips, then smiled with oddly twitching face. “Brother Richard--” “I am Richard Englefield, and here on the wold Godfrey the smith.” “When you were woodchopper, seven leagues yonder, it was Diccon Dawn.” “Aye, so.” “There was Alice Dawn, saith my cousin. Diccon and Alice Dawn. Is she here?” Englefield, standing, looked afar over wold and then into the vast, quiet blue sky. “Yes. Leave horse and man and come with us to the hill yonder.” A tiny stream ran by the smithy. He kneeled and laved his face and hands and arms, dried them, and moved with Somerville, dismounted, toward the hut under gold and purple waves of the wold. “Morgen!” She came forth. Wold went into mist, reeled and was Wander forest and ruined farm. Wander forest, ruined farm, Robert Somerville. “Morgen--Morgen Fay!” The wold came back, wold and sky and Richard the smith. More than that. There came, as it were, a blue mantle around her; she felt an arm, a breast, a face looking down, great as the sky and the earth, supernally fair and filled with supernal love. “O Mother, All-Mother!” Richard was speaking, quickly, “Let us go, Morgen, we three, to the hilltop and talk together there.” They went, climbing the earth-wave, to a level of grass and heath whence one saw all the wold rippling afar. “Sit down--sit down!” The sun shone, the wind went careering. Who will speak first? They let Somerville do that, who sat with eyes now on Morgen and now on gold specks afar in the wold. “Not-change and change--and which is the great miracle perchance the Saints know! I seem to know the whence, Morgen, but as to the where and the whither--” She said, “Listen, Somerville! There was a Morgen, there is a Morgen, there will be a Morgen. ‘There will be’ is the ruler. Say that I died by fire but that I live again pardoned!” He regarded her. A mist came over his eyes, the odd, grimacing face worked. Up went a hand to cover it, then dropped. “Ah, Morgen Fay, I, too, perchance, must do some dying! I had to come to find you, but you are safe and safe enough, for all my finding!” She said, “Aye, Rob, do I not know that of you? Tell me, have you heard aught of Ailsa?” No, he had not. But he told them this and that of Middle Forest and Wander vale. Thomas Bettany? He was well and was wedding young Cecily Danewood. Middle Forest, Castle, Saint Leofric, Silver Cross and Westforest. Montjoy, having made one pilgrimage, was now, they said, gone another.