“If I may I would go with you.”
“As you wish, Montjoy.”
Folk were about them, voices and movement. “Is there a quiet place?”
“There is an old garden at the edge of the town, over the sea.”
“Then let us go there.”
They went. Pine trees sighed around, earth lay carpeted with purple needles. They sat beneath a very great tree, and saw as from a window azure ocean, and a great ship, white-sailed, making into the west.
“I have been far, far without,” spoke Montjoy, “but farther, farther within. When I used to watch you at Silver Cross I believed in you. Again, listening by the boat yonder, I believed. I have made a journey and come where I was not before. And still I journey. I can listen now to whatever you may tell me. Listen, and maybe understand.”
“I have made a journey, too, Montjoy, and come where I was not before.” He took up a handful of purple needles and let slip quietly away while he talked. He told their story,—his story and Morgen Fay’s.
The pine grove stood above the sea, speaking always with a multitudinous low voice. Far and far, deep and deep, stretched Mother Ocean. The white ship, purposeful, still and sure, sped its way from haven unto haven. The great vault of heaven held all.