"And to me, sweet Rocelia," said the young knight earnestly, "it brought you."
"Have I thy permission to speak, Sir Richard?" begged Harold, who was standing by.
"Certes, you have, my boy," replied Sir Richard.
"Then let me wish that all of thy troubles shall be as the smoke of it," said Harold earnestly.
"'Tis a fitting epitaph," Rocelia said, her hand stealing within that of the young knight.
Then, for a little space, they stood there upon the summit of the hill, watching the glare of the burning tavern fading and dying away.
"Yes ... a most fitting epitaph," Sir Richard made answer. Whereupon they resumed their journey lightsomely, happily, northward.