“And perchance he didn’t,” answered Dick.  “Well, fret on if you will; the thing does not trouble me who for my part am sure enough.”

“Of what, man, of what?”

“Of seeing the lady Eve ere long.”

“In this world or the next, Dick?”

“In this.  I don’t reckon of the next, mayhap there we shall be blind and not see.  Besides, of what use is that world to you where it is written that they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels?  You’ll make no good angel, I’m thinking, while as for the lady Eve, she’s too human for it as yet.”

“Why do you think we shall see her on earth?” asked Hugh, ignoring these reflections.

“Because he who is called the Helper said as much, and whatever he may be he is no liar.  Do you not remember what Red Eve told you when she awoke from that dream of hers, which was no dream?  And do you not remember what Sir Andrew told you as to a certain meeting in the snow—­pest upon it!” and he wiped some of the driving flakes from his face—­“Sir Andrew, who is a saint, and, therefore, like Murgh, can be no liar?”

“If you think thus,” said Hugh in a new voice, “why did you not say so before?”

“Because I love not argument, master, and if I had, you would ever have reasoned with me from Avignon to Yarmouth town and spoilt my sleep of nights.  Oh! where is your faith?”

“What is faith, Dick?”

“The gift of belief, master.  A very great gift, seeing what a man believes is and will be true for him, however false it may prove for others.  He who believes nothing, sows nothing, and therefore reaps nothing, good or ill.”

“Who taught you these things, Dick?”

“One whom I am not likely to forget, or you, either.  One who is my master at archery and whose words, like his arrows, though they be few, yet strike the heart of hidden truth.  Oh, fear not, doubtless sorrow waits you yonder,” and he pointed toward Dunwich.  “Yet it comes to my lips that there’s joy beyond the sorrows, the joy of battle and of love—­for those who care for love, which I think foolishness.  There stands a farm, and the farmer is a friend of mine, or used to be.  Let us go thither and feed these poor beasts and ourselves, or I think we will never come to Dunwich through this cold and snow.  Moreover,” he added thoughtfully, “joy or sorrow or both of them are best met by full men, and I wish to look to your harness and my own, for sword and axe are rusted with the sea.  Who knows but that we may need them in Dunwich, or beyond, when we meet with Murgh, as he promised that we should.”

So they rode up to the house and found Dick’s friend, the farmer, lying dead there in his own yard, whither his family had dragged him ere they determined to fly the place.  Still, there was fodder in the stable and they lit a fire in the kitchen hearth and drank of the wine which they had brought with them from the ship, and ate of the bacon which still hung from the rafters.  This done, they lay down to sleep a while.  About one in the morning, however, Hugh roused Dick and David, saying that he could rest no more and that something in his heart bade him push on to Dunwich.