Hearing him talk of that marvellous thing, wrought through inspiration by the Maid—­whereat, as his manner was, he mocked, I had clean forgotten my own jeopardy.  Now this was instant, for who knew how much the archer might have guessed, that followed with the Maid and me, and men-at-arms might anon be at our door.

“It may be,” said I, “that Sir Patrick Ogilvie and Sir Hugh Kennedy would say a word for me in the King’s ear.”

“Faith, that is our one chance, and, luckily for you, the lad you drowned, though in the King’s service, came hither in the following of a poor knight, who might take blood-ransom for his man.  Had he been La Tremouille’s man, you must assuredly have fled the country.”

He took up his Book of Hours, with a sigh, and wrapped it again in its silken parcel.

“This must be your price with Kennedy,” he said, “if better may not be.  It is like parting with the apple of my eye, but, I know not well how, I love you, my lad, and blood is thicker than water.  Give me my staff; I must hirple up that weary hill again, and you, come hither.”

He led me to his own chamber, where I had never been before, and showed me how, in the chimney-neuk, was a way into a certain black hole of little ease, wherein, if any came in search for me, I might lie hidden.  And, fetching me a cold fish (Lenten cheer), a loaf, and a stoup of wine, whereof I was glad enough, he left me, groaning the while at his ill-fortune, but laden with such thanks as I might give for all his great kindness.

There then, I sat, when I had eaten, my ears pricked to listen for the tramp of armed men below and the thunder of their summons at the door.  But they came not, and presently my thought stole back to Elliot, who, indeed, was never out of my mind then—­nay, nor now is.  But whether that memory be sinful in a man of religion or not, I leave to the saints and to good confession.  Much I perplexed myself with marvelling why she did so weep; above all, since I knew what hopeful tidings she had gotten of her friend and her enterprise.  But no light came to me in my meditations.  I did not know then that whereas young men, and many lasses too, are like the Roman lad who went with his bosom bare, crying “Aura veni,” and sighing for the breeze of Love to come, other maidens are wroth with Love when he creeps into their hearts, and would fain cast him out—­being in a manner mad with anger against Love, and against him whom they desire, and against themselves.  This mood, as was later seen, was Elliot’s, for her heart was like a wild bird trapped, that turns with bill and claw on him who comes to set it free.  Moreover, I have since deemed that her passion of faith in the Maid made war on her love for me; one breast being scantly great enough to contain these two affections, and her pride taking, against the natural love, the part of the love which was divine.

But all these were later thoughts, that came to me in musing on the sorrows of my days; and, like most wisdom, this knowledge arrived too late, and I, as then, was holden in perplexity.