Prosper stood leaning on his shield. “The
knight’s honour,” he said, “is in
divers holds—in his lady’s, in God’s,
and in the king’s. These three fly not
always the same flag, but two at least of them should
be in pact.”
“Ah,” said she slyly, “ah, Sir Discreet,
I see that you have the lady first.”
Prosper grew graver. “I said ‘his
lady,’” he repeated.
“And could not I, for such service as yours,
be your lady, fair sir?” she asked in a very
low and troubled voice. “At least I am here—
alone—in the wood—and at your
mercy.”
Prosper looked straight in front of him, grave, working
his mouth. Those who knew him would have gone
by the set of his chin. He may have been thinking
of Brother Bonaccord’s prediction, or of the
not very veiled provocation of the lady’s remarkable
candour. There grew to be a rather bleak look
in his face, something blenched his blue eyes.
He turned sharply upon the woman, and his voice was
like a frost.
“Having slain one man this day,” he said,
“I should recommend you to be wary how you tread
with another.”
She stared open-mouthed at him for a full minute and
a half. Then, seeing he never winked or budged,
she grew frightened and piteous, threw her arms up,
turned, and fled up the north path, squealing like
a wounded rabbit.
Prosper clapped-to his spurs and made after her with
his teeth grinding together. Very soon, however,
he pulled up short. “The man is dead.
Let her go for this present. And I am not quite
sure. I will bide my time.”
That was the motto of the Gais—“I
bide my time.” He was, nevertheless, perfectly
sure in his private mind; but then he was always perfectly
sure, and recognized that it was a weakness of his.
So the woman went her way, and he his for that turn...
Riding forward carelessly, with a loose rein, he slept
that night in the woods. Next day he rode fast
and long without meeting a living soul, and so came
at last into Morgraunt Forest, where the trees shut
out the light of the day, and very few birds sing.
He entered the east purlieus in the evening of his
fifth day from Starning, and slept in a rocky valley.
Tall black trees stood all round him, the vanguards
of the forest host.
HOLY THORN AND HOLY CHURCH
In South Morgraunt stands Holy Thorn, more properly
the Abbey of Saint Giles of Holy Thorn, a broad and
fair foundation, one of the two set up in the forest
by the Countess Isabel, Dowager of March and Bellesme,
Countess of Hauterive and Lady of Morgraunt in her
own right. Where the Wan river makes a great
loop, running east for three miles, and west again
for as many before it drives its final surge towards
the Southern Sea, there stands Holy Thorn, Church and
Convent, watching over the red roofs of Malbank hamlet
huddled together across the flood. Here are green
water-meadows and good corn-lands, the abbey demesne;
