Peregrine gazed around him. In the moonlight he saw the cabin; a rough place enough, built of logs and wattles.
“You live here?” he asked wondering.
“I do. An’ you would have rest and shelter you are welcome to what I can offer you.”
“I accept your offer gladly,” said Peregrine. “I have walked far enough for the nonce,—over far for that matter.”
“Then the sooner you come to a halt the better,” returned Oswald. And he led the way within the cabin.
For all its roughness it was clean and freshsmelling, holding a scent of peat, bracken, and dried herbs, which latter dangled in bunches from a string across one corner. A peat fire lighted the place dimly, flinging great shadows on the log walls.
“Sit you there,” said Oswald, pointing to a heap of bracken; and forthwith busied himself with the preparation of food.
Ere long he had it ready,—crushed corn mixed with goat’s milk and boiled to a smooth paste, sweetened with honey. He ladled it steaming from an iron pot into two bowls fashioned from the dried and seasoned rind of a pumpkin. Peregrine wolfed it down; you could see he brought hunger to it as a very excellent sauce. For drink, Oswald made a beverage from herbs of his own gathering, a dark brew but not unpalatable. Anon, filled and rested, Peregrine gave vent to a great sigh.
“That,” he said, “was exceeding welcome. You saw me pretty near the end of my tether.”
Oswald nodded. “So I fancied. You had been journeying long?”