Old Mald came fawning out to him at this, and took
his hands in her own trembling hands.
“He passed an hour agone,” said she.
“He will do her no wrong till he hath her at
High March, trust him for that. And by now he
should be near Martle, and she before him on the saddle-bow.”
She began to weep and wag her silly head. Prosper
made to go, having no time to waste; but, “Stop,”
she quavered, “and hear me out. Though
the Abbot Richard was murdered at his prayers, yet
withal he got his deserts, for he hatched a worse
wrong than ever Galors did. The child was chained
by the middle, and came to me chained riding a white
palfrey. In green and white she came, and round
her middle was a chain, long and supple, and a monk
on horse-back held the end thereof. She came
to me to the hearth at the length of her chain, and
held me in her dear arms, and kissed me, cheeks and
forehead. Down I sat on my stool and she on the
knees of me, and she hid her face on my leanness while
she spoke of you, my lord—called you her
dear heart, and told of all the bitter longings she
had. Ah, now! Ah, now! If you but knew.”
“God forgive me,” cried the lacerated
wretch, “but I know it all! Yet tell me
what else she said.”
“There was little more,” said Mald, “for
the monk pulled at her, and she went as she came.”
“Have they passed an hour gone?” said
Prosper in a dry whisper.
“Ah, and more.”
“God be with you,” said he; “pray
for her.”
“Pray!” mocked the crone in a rage; “and
pray what will that do?”
“No more than I, mother, just now. God
is all about us. Farewell!”
And he was gone amid flying peats.
Midway of the heath a second knight met him, challenged
him, and charged. Prosper was not for small game
that night. His head grew cooler, as always,
for his haste, his arm steady as a rock. Thereupon
he ran his man through the breastbone. He broke
his spear, but took the other’s, and away.
At the edge of the wood the moon-rays gleamed a third
time upon mail. It was Galors’ last sentry,
who hallooed to stay him. Prosper was on him
before he was ready, and hurled him from the saddle.
He never moved. Prosper galloped through the wood.
The snapping branches, thunder of hoofs, labouring
belly and hard-won breath of his beast, more than
all the wind that sang in his ears, prevented him
from hearing what Galors and his prey had already heard.
He went headlong down the slope of the ground; but
before anything more welcome he caught the music of
the brook in the bottom.
There was a gap in the trees just there; the moon
swam in the midst large and golden. Then at last
he saw what he wanted, and knew that the hour had
come.
SALOMON IS DRIVEN HOME
