"And Rue it will be to my last hour," said Robin, "for a man can no more escape from his name than from his nature."
"Men," observed Martin, "have been in this respect worse served than women. And when will Gillian Gillman change her name?"
"No sooner than I," sighed Robin Rue; "a maid she must die, as I a bachelor. And if she do not outlive me, we shall both be buried before Christmas."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Martin. And stepping into the malthouse he offered Robin six keys.
"How will these help us?" said Robin Rue.
"They are the keys of your lady's Well-House," said Martin Pippin, "and how I have outpaced her I cannot imagine, for she was on the road to you twenty hours ago."
"This is no news," said Robin. "There she is."
And he turned his face to the dark of the malthouse, and there, sitting on a barrel, with a slice of the sunset falling through a slit on her corn-colored hair, was Gillian.
"In love's name," cried Martin Pippin, putting his hands to his head, "what more do you want?"
"A husband worthy of her," moaned Robin Rue, "and how can I suppose that I am he? Oh, that I were only good enough for her! oh, that she could be happily mated, as after all her sorrows she deserves to be!"