Reicht led the way, and Margaret followed readily enough in that direction; but as they drew near the cell, she stopped again.
“Reicht, go you and ask him, will he give me back my boy; for I could not bear the sight of him.”
“Alas! mistress, this do seem a sorry ending after all that hath been betwixt you twain. Bethink thee now, doth thine heart whisper no excuse for him? dost verily hate him for whom thou hast waited so long? Oh, weary world!”
“Hate him, Reicht? I would not harm a hair of his head for all that is in nature; but look on him I cannot; I have taken a horror of him. Oh! when I think of all I have suffered for him, and what I came here this night to do for him, and brought my own darling to kiss him and call him father. Ah, Luke, my poor chap, my wound showeth me thine. I have thought too little of thy pangs, whose true affection I despised; and now my own is despised, Reicht, if the poor lad was here now, he would have a good chance.”
“Well, he is not far off,” said Reicht Heynes; but somehow she did not say it with alacrity.
“Speak not to me of any man,” said Margaret bitterly; “I hate them all.”
“For the sake of one?”
“Flout me not, but prithee go forward, and get me what is my own, my sole joy in the world. Thou knowest I am on thorns till I have him to my bosom again.”
Reicht went forward; Margaret sat by the roadside and covered her face with her apron, and rocked herself after the manner of her country, for her soul was full of bitterness and grief. So severe, indeed, was the internal conflict, that she did not hear Reicht running back to her, and started violently when the young woman laid a hand upon her shoulder.
“Mistress Margaret!” said Reicht quietly, “take a fool's advice that loves ye. Go softly to yon cave, wi' all the ears and eyes your mother ever gave you.”