“What is all this about, my child?” asked
Prosper wondering.
“Oh” cried the girl, “my lord! the
monk seeks to do me a wrong, and a shame greater than
all!”
Prosper looked deeper into the quarry. There
he saw Galors, the white monk, who stood fixed, biting
his nails keenly there. Then he laughed, saying,
“I cannot fight a monk,” and sheathed his
sword. He did not love monks, none of his house
did. He had seen the new gallows, could measure
the build of the fellow in the quarry; and though he
could not plumb the girl’s soul through her
misty eyes, he could read her shaking lips and clinging
hands; he could see, and be shocked to see, how young
she was to be acquainted with grief, and with sin how
likely familiar. The hint of the thing revolted
him; he dared not leave her there.
“See here, child,” said he, “I will
set you before me, and we will ride together for a
while. Perhaps the evening chills will temper
the monk; but if not, I am to lodge at his abbey this
night, and may prepare that for him which will cool
him. Will you come up to me?”
The ghost of a smile hovered over her white drawn
face for a minute. “I will go where you
will take me, my lord,” said she.
“Come up with you then,” he replied.
He stooped there and then, took her below the arms,
and lightly swung her into the saddle before him.
There she sat, modern fashion, with his sword arm for
her stay. “I should like to read that hulk
a lesson,” said her protector wistfully, “but
I doubt he will have it before night. Oh, let
him hang!” So he turned and rode out of the
quarry on to the heath.
Galors stood a long time in the place where they left
him, drawing blood from his bitten fingers. Darkness
gathered fast with a storm of wind and rain.
Nevertheless he stayed on; and night came down to find
him still there.
THE VIRGIN MARRIAGE
He had to talk, and as the girl gave him no help,
Prosper found himself asking questions and puzzling
out the answers he got, trying to make them fit with
the facts. He was amazed that one so delicately
formed should go barefooted and bareheaded, clad in
torn rags. To all his questions she replied in
a voice low and tremulous, and very simply—that
is to say, to such of them as she would answer at all.
To many—to all which touched upon Galors
and his business with her in the quarry—she
was as dumb as a fish. Prosper was as patient
as you could expect.
He asked her who she was, and how called. She
told him—“I am Matt-of-the-Moors
child, and men call me Isoult la Desirous.”
“That is a strange name,” said he.
“How came you by such a name as that?”
“Sir,” said Isoult, “I have never
had any other; and I suppose that I have it because
I am unhappy, and not at peace with those who seek
me.”
“Who seeks you, Isoult?”
To that she gave no reply. So Prosper went on.
