The wold rolled afar, sun shone, wind breathed. Blue sky had cloud mountains. Blue sea, pearl mountains, and that invisible that held and was both, and rising with both surpassed. The wind sang, the fragrance ran. Richard Englefield told of his life. Boyhood and the goldsmith, France and Italy, the tall houses, the seeking, the priest, Silver Cross. “Now thine, Somerville!” Awhile ago Somerville would have thought this impossible, but now, quietly reminiscently, he spread out for himself and for them Somerville’s life, dark and light. And then there spoke Morgen Fay. The clean wind, the dry light, went about the hill. “And all was changing all the time, changing and waking and learning, through earth and air and water and fire! And now it begins to know that it wakes and learns--and that is all, Rob--and now are we all born again.” “Born again,” said Somerville? “Is that possible?” “It has happened.” Englefield was speaking. “And now Middle Forest is dear again, and Silver Cross is dear again, and street of the smiths is dear, and Cuddington wood and this wold. And you and me and Morgen and Emmy yonder, and all.” “Is Abbot Mark dear? And is Prior Matthew, too?” Godfrey the smith laughed. “Why, when they wish it we can talk together, being after all one!” “It is true we talk together,” said Somerville, “and I feel no anger against you, and you seem to have none against me.” “I have none. And beautiful is this day and restful, here on the hill top. And God is in the world and here.” The sun stood at noon. Clean air, dry air, autumn wealth and rest, and beyond the autumn, across the winter, spring,--ever higher, ever richer, ever with more music! They left the hill and came to smithy and huts. They gave Somerville and his man bread and ale, and then the three said farewell. Somerville on his bay horse rode over the wold. Old habit as he rode, horses’ hoofs beating so, brought forth rhythm and words. “Who can tell The road he’s led? The glint of gold-- In each that worth-- That’s here, that’s there, That vanisheth! ‘It ne’er had birth!’ Then comes again, Daffodil from winter earth. Star shining out, when storm lies dead!” CHAPTER XXX The wold hung November grey. “Snow in that cloud,” quoth the old smith. “Elf of the world wants a white flower!” “Snowy night a year ago!” said Morgen Fay. Emmy spoke. “A many are coming by, hurrying, for they want to get across the wold before air is white and ground is white.” So the smiths somewhat looked for many, but that day passed and the night and part of the next day and none came. Snow, too, held off. Sky pallid grey, earth grey, and all unearthly still. Then a packman came by, going from a town south of the wold to a town north of it, and he had news. He had ridden ahead of thirty who would stop for rest at the Good Man. “Prior and his monks and so many lay brothers stoutly armed and mounted. Great church folk changing visits.”