“It has happened.” Englefield was speaking. “And now Middle Forest is dear again, and Silver Cross is dear again, and street of the smiths is dear, and Cuddington wood and this wold. And you and me and Morgen and Emmy yonder, and all.”
“Is Abbot Mark dear? And is Prior Matthew, too?”
Godfrey the smith laughed. “Why, when they wish it we can talk together, being after all one!”
“It is true we talk together,” said Somerville, “and I feel no anger against you, and you seem to have none against me.”
“I have none. And beautiful is this day and restful, here on the hill top. And God is in the world and here.”
The sun stood at noon. Clean air, dry air, autumn wealth and rest, and beyond the autumn, across the winter, spring,—ever higher, ever richer, ever with more music! They left the hill and came to smithy and huts. They gave Somerville and his man bread and ale, and then the three said farewell.
Somerville on his bay horse rode over the wold. Old habit as he rode, horses’ hoofs beating so, brought forth rhythm and words.
“Who can tell
The road he’s led?