We turned in again, but sleep was broken until daylight came, and we were astir with the first gleam of sun across the door.  It was a bright morning, with a steady sea breeze from the northeast, and every promise of the fine weather that comes withal in the summer.  On the hills the smoke of the war beacons still rose and drifted, but there was no sign of stir at the foot of the glen on the mainland where the fishers had their haven, such as it was.

The brethren came from their cells, looked at the black smoke wreaths, and sighed, and went their ways into the chapel for the matins, and the little bell rang.  Then Gerda came from her cell and saw us, for she, too, was early wakeful here in the quiet.

“Why are you looking so troubled? she asked us, as we bade her good morrow.  Her eyes went from one to the other in some dismay, for I dare say we showed that the night had been unquiet for us.

“There seems to be some trouble on the mainland,” I answered.  “There are beacon fires yonder, but the brothers think little of them.  They are not unusual here from all accounts.”

“By no means,” said Dalfin.  “And they may mean little.  At the most, we may be kept waiting here for a day or two longer while my father gathers men and goes to see what is amiss.  Now I have a mind to ask the hermits to call the fishers and let me cross and help, if so be there is fighting on hand.

“You would come also, would you not?” he asked, looking at us two.

“Hardly,” Bertric answered, before I could do so in the same word.

“Why not?”

“It is not to be supposed that we could leave our charge,” he answered.

“Forgive me; I forgot,” said Dalfin at once.

But even that word had made Gerda pale with the thought that she might be left alone, with the fear of our not returning for her.  She smiled at Bertric as he answered, and then asked if we should not follow the brothers into the chapel, as we were told we might do at any time, though this first service was not one for which she and I might stay all the while.

So we went in, and there bided while we might.  Presently we two had to rise up and leave the place, unwillingly, so far as Gerda was concerned.  Phelim and I between us had told her the words of the service.

Now we walked away together toward the shore, and were silent for a time.  It was plain that she thought deeply on somewhat.  At last she said sadly: 

“What is to come is all dim and unknown, but if it does come to pass that I may ever have home of my own again, I would that there was one of these brothers to teach me and mine.”

“That might easily be,” I answered.

“They would not go to a heathen land?” she said in surprise.

“Maybe not these hermits, but some man like to them would.  I have heard them talk of men who are held in the greatest honour because they have dared to do so.”