At this revelation Margaret's tears began to flow.
Luke whimpered for company. He had the body of a man, but the heart of a girl.
"Prithee, weep not so, sweet mistress," said he. "I'd bring him back to life, an' I could, rather than see thee weep so sore."
Margaret said she thought she was weeping because they were so double-tongued with her.
She recovered herself, and laying her hand on his shoulder, said solemnly, "Luke, he is not dead. Dying men are known to have a strange sight. And listen, Luke! My poor father, when he was a-dying, and I, simple fool, was so happy, thinking he was going to get well altogether, he said to mother and me—he was sitting in that very chair where you are now, and mother was as might be here, and I was yonder making a sleeve—said he, 'I see him! I see him!' Just so. Not like a failing man at all, but all o' fire. 'Sore disfigured—on a great river—coming this way.'
"Ah, Luke, if you were a woman, and had the feeling for me you think you have, you would pity me, and find him for me. Take a thought! The father of my child!"
"Alack, I would, if I knew how," said Luke. "But how can I?"
"Nay, of course you cannot. I am mad to think it. But, oh, if any one really cared for me, they would; that is all I know."
Luke reflected in silence for some time.
"The old folk all say dying men can see more than living wights. Let me think: for my mind cannot gallop like thine. On a great river? Well, the Maas is a great river." He pondered on.