September. Said Emmy, “I see some one coming, riding a bay horse.”
They were walking the wold. “Maybe ’tis to-morrow,” said Emmy, “maybe next day, maybe next week. I cannot see his face but he means to ride to the smithy on great wold.”
The day was golden, golden September. Everything spread wider, everything lifted higher. All things had their roots down, down, but all things climbed and broadened, inviting the air and the wind and the sun.
“Ah, warmth in light! Ah, light in warmth!”
“Aye, aye!” said Emmy. “The world’s no so bad if you take it large.”
Back in a great amber twilight to smithy and huts.
In the morning anvil and iron and hammer. Glow of fire, sweeping past of wold wind. A man on a bay horse, a man behind him riding a black mare, came to the smithy. Richard Englefield, looking up, met full the eyes of Somerville.
He knew him, remembering him with Abbot Mark, coming to view him at work, at Silver Cross. He felt in his hands again a silver bowl, around it silver vine leaves. Somerville drew his breath and moistened his lips, then smiled with oddly twitching face. “Brother Richard—”
“I am Richard Englefield, and here on the wold Godfrey the smith.”
“When you were woodchopper, seven leagues yonder, it was Diccon Dawn.”