“You are together, you and Morgen Fay?”
“Aye, together.”
From the grove might be seen the high roofs of the town climbing to a huge, four-towered castle.
“I work again as goldsmith, making for who will buy. Yonder you may see the roof of our house. An old workman of mine, now palsied and helpless, lives with his brother in that fishing village. On a holiday, as this is, I walk to see him. It has come about that I may talk to folk here and there—in that fishing village and elsewhere.”
“Is there no danger in that?”
“Perhaps! But those who have lived and suffered and learned through living and suffering, may help. So with Morgen Fay and so with me.”
“I would see her if I might.”
“Come then and sleep this night in the smith’s house.”
They went there. A small, timbered house, one story overhanging another, old, quiet, with the castle soaring above and the bell of the church of the Franciscans ringing near. Within, in a dusky wide room, rose from her book Morgen Fay, jewel-like, rose-like, flame-like. Montjoy, looking, saw nothing that wounded Isabel, nor that wounded the Reality behind the great picture at Silver Cross.
THE END