Then Martimor ran with the miller out upon the dam, and they laboured at the gates that held the river back, and thrust away the logs that were heaped over them, and cut with axes, and fought with the river. So at last two of the gates were lifted and one was broken, and the flood ran down ramping and roaring in great raundon, and as it ran the black face of Flumen sprang above it, crying, “Yet will I mar both Mill and Maid.” “That shalt thou never do,” cried Martimor, “by foul or fair, while the life beats in my body.” So he came back with the miller into the Mill, and there was meat ready for them and they ate strongly and with good heart. “Now,” said the miller, “must I mend the gate. But how it may be done, I know not, for surely this will be great travail for a man alone.” “Why alone?” said Martimor. “Thou wilt stay, then?” said Lirette. “Yea,” said he. “For another month?” said she. “Till the gate be mended,” said he. But when the gate was mended there came another flood and brake the second gate. And when that was mended there came another flood and brake the third gate. So when all three were mended firm and fast, being bound with iron, still the grimly river hurled over the dam, and the voice of Flumen muttered in the dark of winter nights, “Yet will I mar--mar--mar--yet will I mar Mill and Maid.” “Oho!” said Martimor, “this is a durable and dogged knave. Art thou feared of him Lirette?” “Not so,” said she, “for thou art stronger. But fear have I of the day when thou ridest forth in thy quest.” “Well, as to that,” said he, “when I have overcome this false devil Flumen, then will we consider and appoint that day.” So the delay continued, and Martimor was both busy and happy at the Mill, for he liked and loved this damsel well, and was fain of her company. Moreover the strife with Flumen was great joy to him. VI How the Month of May came to the Mill, and the Delay was Made Longer Now when the month of May came to the Mill it brought a plenty of sweet flowers, and Lirette wrought in the garden. With her, when the day was spent and the sun rested upon the edge of the hill, went Martimor, and she showed him all her flowers that were blue. But none of them was like the flower on his shield. “Is it this?” she cried, giving him a violet. “Too dark,” said he. “Then here it is,” she said, plucking a posy of forget-me-not. “Too light,” said he. “Surely this is it,” and she brought him a spray of blue-bells. “Too slender,” said he, “and well I ween that I may not find that flower, till I ride farther in my quest and achieve great adventure.” Then was the Maid cast down, and Martimor was fain to comfort her.