The White Lodge loomed up over them, its long front frowning with black beams. The shaggy eaves threw a band of dense shadow, and the upper storey overhung the lower, being carried out on oak brackets and great carved corner posts. A path of rough stones sunk in the ground led to the porch, with the oak door studded with iron nails and hung on hand-wrought strap-hinges. There were beds of herbs, a grass plot, and a few rose bushes in front of the house; also a sundial set on a stone pillar. Fulk knocked loudly with the pommel of his short sword. He and Isoult stood together in the gloom of the porch, so close that they could have touched each other; yet neither spoke, but listened to the sound of each other’s breathing. A tacit sense of antagonism possessed them. The man mistrusted the woman; the woman thought the man an obstinate fool. They heard someone stirring within. There was an iron grille in the door, and the little shutter that closed it was shot back. A man’s voice bellowed a challenge as though he were bawling at a disobedient hound: “Who’s there?” The voice seemed to make a draught in the porch, and the high wooden palisade echoed it back. “Open to us, John.” The bars were withdrawn, and the door opened. “A catch, master, surely!” “Nothing to boast of. Get a light.” The fellow made way for them, and went to light a torch at the embers that still glowed on the round hearth in the centre of the hall. He yawned hugely and scratched his head, the torch, as it flared up, throwing on the wall a large and shadowy travesty of a round head and a jogging elbow. Fulk rebarred the door, and the woman Isoult went to warm herself before the glowing ashes. The forester turned, yawning in her face; but astonishment proved stronger than the incipient yawn. “Strike me bloody—a woman!” He held the torch high, and put his face near to hers. His breath, and the sodden hardness of his eyes told her that he was too fond of the mead horn. “Hey, you hen-harrier! Master, it be a woman.” Fulk turned on him fiercely. “Kennel up, you fool of a sot! Put the torch in a bracket. Now, go and fetch us a jug of cider and some bread and honey. Hurry!” The man blinked and went off yawning, but Fulk called him back before he reached the door leading towards the kitchen quarters. “Dame Ferrers is abed?” “These three hours, master.” “Good. Bring the cider, bread and honey, and then go and set up the truckle bed in the store-room, and get clean straw.” They were left alone together. Fulk pointed her to a stool by the fire. “My mother and her wench are abed. They shall look to you to-morrow.” She nodded, and said nothing, but stole a glance at him from under her hood. The smoky flare of the solitary torch was even more baffling than the moonlight, and Fulk was standing, half turned to the light, and examining the two halves of the bow he had taken from her, his face hard, inscrutable, and murky. “This bow was not made in these parts.”