“How may I bid him to the gate when he 's gone forth yonder in the Chase with hook and line and missal to catch fish for supper?”
“Ah! good brother, gramerci,” laughed Calote.
“Then kiss me,” said he. “Nay, what harm? An old man that might be thy father twice over!”
But she shook her head and sprang swiftly from him.
“I 've a long journey afore me,” she said, “and if I kiss every man that doeth me service, there 'll be no kisses left for my True Love.”
So she ran away among the trees, and the old man went into the gate-house and sat chuckling.
All about Malvern Priory was forest, and a part of this was the King's Chase. The woodland climbed the hill part way, thinning as it climbed.
"'I was weary with wandering and went me to rest
Under a broad bank by a burn's side.'"
hummed Calote as she went upward. “Belike he 's there catching his fish.”
The day was mild; Saint Martin's summer was at hand; all around trees were yellowing, leaves were dropping. The little haze that is ever among the Malverns dimmed the vistas betwixt the tree-trunks to faintest blue. The voices of the hunt floated upward from the level stretch of forest in the plain,—bellowing of dogs, a horn, a distant shouting.