"Vengeance?" says I and, with the word, the staff snapped in my hands.
"Is it not so, Martin?" she questioned, wistfully. "Given freedom from this island would you not go seeking your enemy's life? Dream you not of vengeance still?"
"Aye, true," says I, "true! How should it be otherwise? Come, let us begone!" And casting away my broken staff, I got to my feet. But she, sitting there, lifted her head to view me with look mighty strange.
"Poor Martin!" says she softly. "Poor Martin!"
Then she arose, albeit slow and wearily, and we went down the hill together. Now as we went thus, I in black humour (and never a word) I espied one of those great birds I have mentioned within easy range, and whipping off my bow I strung it, and setting arrow on cord let fly and brought down my quarry (as luck would have it) and running forward had very soon despatched it.
"Why must you kill the poor thing, Martin?"
"For supper."
"Supper waiteth us at home."
"Home?" says I.
"The cave, Martin."