Grimbald and Marpasse set out on their five-league trudge to Goldspur, both of them being stout walkers, and eager to come to the end of the tale. These two warm, rough natures were quickly in sympathy, for Grimbald discovered the “woman” in Marpasse, and being nothing of the Pharisee he had no exquisite dread of soiling his robes. Marpasse talked to him on the way as she had never talked to a man before. Grimbald was so strong and so honest that the woman’s eyes gleamed out at him approvingly. Isoult’s death had stirred her deeply, following as it had on her comradeship with Denise. Marpasse put her life in its crude and simple colours before Grimbald’s eyes, not justifying herself, but talking as though it helped her to talk to a priest who understood. “It is just like climbing a ladder,” she said, “to get inside a castle. The good people above throw stones, and potsherds, and boiling oil. And if you get to the top—they try to pitch you down again. If I had my way I would have a door in the side of the world, and the poor drabs should be let in quietly, and put out to work to earn their bread.” “Sometimes it is very dull—being good,” said Grimbald with a twinkle. “It is often very dreary being sinful, Father. Give me a chance to choose, and I would have a fire-side, and a bed, and a broom to use, and a man to cuff me—at times—if he kissed me an hour afterwards. A smack on the cheek does a woman a world of good.” “And a kiss on the mouth?” asked Grimbald. “Oh, that makes the puddings turn out well. And I have a taste for puddings.” Grimbald’s prophetic instinct fulfilled itself that morning, for they were not a mile from Goldspur village, and following a track that ran over a stretch of heathland between the woods, when they saw a man ride out from a woodland way. He was not a furlong from them, so near that they could see the red stains on the white cross sewn to his surcoat, and the way the reins were slack upon the horse’s neck. In fact, the horse seemed to carry the man, and not the man to guide the horse. It was Aymery himself, grey-faced, battered, forlorn as a ship struggling home after a storm. Grimbald’s long legs left Marpasse far behind. Aymery smiled at him as a sick man smiles at the face of a friend. He had grown gaunt and haggard in a night, and the unshaven stubble on his chin showed black against his pallor. “Victory at Lewes.” Grimbald took his bridle. “And a wound—somewhere,” he said. “Wounds—plenty of them. I am tired, Grimbald—tired as a dog.” Aymery left his horse to the priest, for it was as much as he could do to steady himself in the saddle by holding to the pommel with both hands. Marpasse came to meet them, and Aymery looked at her stupidly, as though his brain were clouded. A faint gleam passed across his face as he recognised Marpasse. “I have killed him,” he said; “yes—it was on the edge of the woods—over yonder.”