John Cobb crossed himself.
The fire burned, the fire sang. The snow fell, large flakes, white, down coming with an intimate, cool grace.
Somerville rode into town. He rode musingly, wrapped in a great grey mantle, with a wide, grey, stiffened felt hat, keeping snow from him much like a shed roof. He had ridden from manor to Silver Cross where he had been entertained. Now he rode on to Middle Forest, and he rode in a deep study. Certain muscles twitched in his odd, brown face. Upon setting out he had not meant to go farther than Silver Cross. He hardly knew why he should ride on down Wander. Perhaps he might think that he wanted time to think. But below consciousness decisions were already made, actions acted. That was what drew the muscles about mouth and eyes and, sitting in his wrist, turned his big bay horse down Wander, not up. He might think that he was thinking, but old life was acting after old fashion. He rode through falling snow, and he rode not in the mood of one night at Morgen Fay’s, but in a pleasanter, brisker mood. He felt amused, speculative, genial, triumphant. It was well to find human nature through and through the ancient, pleasant, faulty pattern! He did not dislike it—marry, no! It strengthened, buttressed, warmed and pleased his sense of himself to feel warp and woof so continuous.
Silver Cross had this day withdrawn all claim to that debated good mile of land. It had acknowledged Somerville’s right. Parchment crackled in his pocket, parchment with Abbot Mark’s name and seal at bottom. Land at last in his hand. Why? Somerville knew why. “I am bought for the miracles.” Laughter played over his quick face.
Prior Matthew had “chanced” to be at Silver Cross. “He is the puppet master!”
Nothing had been divulged as to form of puppets, or that there were puppets, or for that matter miracles. Certainly nothing was said of purchase. All had been warm, friendly, with an air of Yule. “But when there are miracles—believe and cry aloud that it is so! Never bring cold to wither them, snow to cover them! Be a friend, and in our camp!” Somerville laughed. After an old habit, he hummed, he sang as he rode:
“Turn thy coat—
Turn thy coat,
Having the land,
Having the land.