‘Whither away, an it please you?’ said he, his brows lifted.
‘To the moors,’ answered Brion.
‘And to your death on them, mayhap,’ said the cook. ‘Dost know what thou venturest? Be warned, young master.’
‘What death?’ said the boy scornfully.
‘The death of rocks and water, of falls and blind wanderings, of cold and exhaustion. Thou must not go, indeed.’
‘Must not, master cook! That is no word for me. Now, stand aside, I prithee.’
‘What shall I say to his honour, when he comes to call my account?’
‘Say that you did your best, but could not prevail with a proud and wilful boy. I prithee, good Phineas.’
‘Now, God help both me and you! Will you do it?’
Brion pushed by, with no answer other than a laugh, and ran out into the mist. He found, with some difficulty, the wicket in the big outer gate, opened it, stepped through, and passed over the bridge. And the fog swallowed him.