Peregrine shook his head. “You may be right, but I do not think it is. Yet, an’ you will take the boy, you will be doing a goodly deed.” “That I will do readily enough,” replied the Abbot gravely. Here a silence fell. And so they pursued their way among the trees. Great beech trees they were; the trunks grey and purple, flecked with green and silver; the leaves russet and brown, toned by the touch of autumn. Long shaded glades stretched on either hand. Now and again a rabbit scuttled down one of them. Small stirrings among the undergrowth bespoke the presence of dormice, squirrels, and other woodland creatures. The silence was occasionally broken by the harsh note of a pheasant. Anon ascending somewhat, and the trees thinning, they had glimpse between them of a valley beyond lying in autumn sunlight. Here there were more woods, blue in the hazy distance. Coming from among the trees, Peregrine had sight of grey towers in the valley; judged, and rightly, it was Dieuporte lying in its peaceful shelter. Now they began to descend. The way led adown a lane bordered on either hand by blackberry bushes laden with dark luscious fruit. At the bottom a stream crossed it, stepping stones affording traverse for foot passengers. Now the road widened, lying between sedgy meadows, where cows stood in the shadow of the willows. After a mile or so it turned leftwards, and here Dieuporte lay straight before them. The sight of its grey towers stirred Peregrine strangely. For a moment he found himself ready to believe the Abbot’s words, to see his goal within the quiet place. Now I know not precisely why he put the thought aside; but, methinks that being twice deluded by the words of men, he had no mind to find himself deluded a third time; thought rather to trust to his own self in the matter. Yet, for all that, the sight of the place moved him strangely, as I have said. He felt like a man travelling in very barbarous lands come within sight of a home. And further, felt that within that home dwelt one long desired, long needed, yet never attained. Some mighty power seemed to draw him to it even while his spirit rebelled. Telling himself imagination and illusion were present with him, he set himself to combat it. Had not bitterness from past disappointment been present with him, perchance he might have read some omen in the still hush of the autumn air, have found in it a tenseness as of expectant waiting. The red-dyed leaves hung motionless on the trees above him as he rode, rusty, stained as though with blood. The combat within his soul was sharp and fierce. His own will gained the mastery. He strangled the thought, flung it aside as rank sentiment. A little breeze passed around him, stirring the leaves on the trees. It came like a breath of regret. Perchance Abbot Hilary recognized it unwittingly, for he sighed. The boy moved in Peregrine’s arms, yawned, and presently awakened. “Where are we?” he asked.