Then Martimor ran with the miller out upon the dam, and they laboured at the gates that held the river back, and thrust away the logs that were heaped over them, and cut with axes, and fought with the river. So at last two of the gates were lifted and one was broken, and the flood ran down ramping and roaring in great raundon, and as it ran the black face of Flumen sprang above it, crying, “Yet will I mar both Mill and Maid.”
“That shalt thou never do,” cried Martimor, “by foul or fair, while the life beats in my body.”
So he came back with the miller into the Mill, and there was meat ready for them and they ate strongly and with good heart. “Now,” said the miller, “must I mend the gate. But how it may be done, I know not, for surely this will be great travail for a man alone.”
“Why alone?” said Martimor.
“Thou wilt stay, then?” said Lirette.
“Yea,” said he.
“For another month?” said she.
“Till the gate be mended,” said he.
But when the gate was mended there came another flood and brake the second gate. And when that was mended there came another flood and brake the third gate. So when all three were mended firm and fast, being bound with iron, still the grimly river hurled over the dam, and the voice of Flumen muttered in the dark of winter nights, “Yet will I mar—mar—mar—yet will I mar Mill and Maid.”
“Oho!” said Martimor, “this is a durable and dogged knave. Art thou feared of him Lirette?”