“Where is that hermitage?”
“Upon Morven, upon the highest uplands of Morven, between a thorn-tree and an ash-tree, and beneath an oak-tree.”
“What is my patron saint doing in this place?”
“Master, I also keep away from these saints. But it is rumored that this Hoprig is now somewhat recklessly exercising the privileges of sainthood; that his doings are not very favorably looked down upon; and that the angels, in particular, are complaining because of his frequent demands on them.”
“That does not sound at all well,” said Florian, “and certainly there is no precedent for the wife of a Puysange consorting with people who annoy the angels.”
The Collyn yawned: and for a while she looked at Florian somewhat as ordinary cats regard a mouse-hole.
“Master, I would not bother about this last wife. Why should you count so scrupulously one woman more or less on the long list?”
“It is not the woman I wish to keep. Faith of a gentleman, no! But I must keep my plighted word.”
“Master,” said the cool and tiny voice, “you are thrusting yourself into a dangerous business. For this woman is now under Hoprig’s protection, and the powers of these saints are not to be despised.”
“That is true, but I must hold to my bargain with Monsieur Janicot. The pious old faith that made my living glad has been taken away from me, the dreams that I preserved from childhood have been embodied for my derision. I see my admirations and my desires for what they are, and this is a spectacle before which crumbles my self-conceit. The past, wherein because of these empoisoned dreams I stinted living, has become hateful: and of my hopes for the future, the less said the better. All crumbles, Collyn: but Puysange remains Puysange.”