“Shall you visit Walderne Castle?” inquired Hubert.
“It may fall to my lot to do so.”
“Avoid Drogo; at least do not trust him. He hates us both.”
“He may have mended.”
Hubert shook his head.
A few warm, affectionate words, and they came to the spot where their road divided—the one to the northeast, the other to the southeast. They tried to preserve the proper self control, but it failed them, and their eyes were very limpid. So they parted.
At midday the two friars rested in a sweet glade, and slept after a frugal meal, till the birds awoke them with their songs.
“They remind me of an incident in the life of our dear father Francis,” said Ginepro, “which my father witnessed.”
“Tell it as we go. Sweet converse shortens the toil of the way.”
“Once, when he was preaching, the birds drowned his voice with their songs of gladness, whereupon he said: