“Ah, maid, art thou there?” answered Guy. “Run on, Annora, and say to the Grey Lady that I will be at her cell in less than an hour. Thy feet are swifter than mine.”
Annora ran blithely forward. Guy of Ashridge pursued his weary road, for he was manifestly very weary. At length he rather suddenly halted, and sat down on a bank where primroses grew by the way-side.
“I can go no further without resting,” said he. “Ten is one thing, and threescore and ten is another. If I could turn back and go no further!—Is the child here again already?”
“Father Guy,” said Annora, running up and throwing herself down on the primrose bank, “I have been to the cell, but I have not given your message.”
“Is the Lady not there?” asked Guy, a sudden feeling of relief coming over him.
“Oh yes, she is there,” replied the child; “but she was kneeling at prayer, and I thought you would not have me disturb her.”
“Right,” answered the monk. “But lest she should leave the cell ere I reach it, go back, Annora, and keep watch. Tell her, if she come forth, that I must speak with her to-day.”
Once more away fled the light-footed Annora, and Guy, rising, resumed his journey.
“If it must be, it may as well be now,” he said to himself, with a sigh.
So, plodding and resting by turns, he at length arrived at the door of the cell. The door was closed, and the child sat on the step before it, singing softly to herself, and playing with a lapful of wild flowers—just as her sister had been doing when Philippa Sergeaux first made her acquaintance.