The red sail and the blue sea, the salt, and the divine fresh morning. “Is there?” answered Montjoy. “And there is something in yours--” The other said in English, “Naught’s impossible ever! A long pilgrimage from an English castle?” “Aye, brother! At Avignon I was shown a great cup made in Paris fifteen years ago by the English goldsmith, Englefield.” The town in front of them was growing larger. The younger boatman had still his questions about Galilee and Olivet. The fresh wind carried the boat fast. Here was a long wharf and the town, and quitting the _Nightingale_, and thanks and partings with the boatmen, then a street and tall houses heaping toward a castle on the hill. “The lady of the castle loveth pilgrims,” said Englefield. “And yonder is the great house of the Franciscans.” “If I may I would go with you.” “As you wish, Montjoy.” Folk were about them, voices and movement. “Is there a quiet place?” “There is an old garden at the edge of the town, over the sea.” “Then let us go there.” They went. Pine trees sighed around, earth lay carpeted with purple needles. They sat beneath a very great tree, and saw as from a window azure ocean, and a great ship, white-sailed, making into the west. “I have been far, far without,” spoke Montjoy, “but farther, farther within. When I used to watch you at Silver Cross I believed in you. Again, listening by the boat yonder, I believed. I have made a journey and come where I was not before. And still I journey. I can listen now to whatever you may tell me. Listen, and maybe understand.” “I have made a journey, too, Montjoy, and come where I was not before.” He took up a handful of purple needles and let slip quietly away while he talked. He told their story,--his story and Morgen Fay’s. The pine grove stood above the sea, speaking always with a multitudinous low voice. Far and far, deep and deep, stretched Mother Ocean. The white ship, purposeful, still and sure, sped its way from haven unto haven. The great vault of heaven held all. “You are together, you and Morgen Fay?” “Aye, together.” From the grove might be seen the high roofs of the town climbing to a huge, four-towered castle. “I work again as goldsmith, making for who will buy. Yonder you may see the roof of our house. An old workman of mine, now palsied and helpless, lives with his brother in that fishing village. On a holiday, as this is, I walk to see him. It has come about that I may talk to folk here and there--in that fishing village and elsewhere.” “Is there no danger in that?” “Perhaps! But those who have lived and suffered and learned through living and suffering, may help. So with Morgen Fay and so with me.” “I would see her if I might.” “Come then and sleep this night in the smith’s house.”