“I forded a stream. I am a soothsayer, Black Martin’s granddaughter.”
They were not curious, or it seemed to be enough. They stayed silent and Gersonde with them. The mother and the babe slept; the old woman and the two younger ones sat somewhat huddled over the fire. Now and then one put out a hand, took a faggot from the heap, and fed the flame. The hours went by. Somewhere a cock crew.
Gersonde lifted her head, then rose to her feet. “It is time to go. I thank you all.”
Said the younger woman: “Guyot and Simon have gone with the Baron. You may stay if you wish and help with the woodcutting.”
The old woman spoke. “What do they say outside about the World coming to an End?... What I do wish to know is this: Is there to be turn and turn about in heaven? Will the baron be the woodcutter, and the woodcutter the baron? Will man be woman, and woman be man?”
“That is not the way they manage,” said Gersonde. “For then still would be unhappiness.”
She drew her cloak around her, said good-bye, and left the hut. It was pink dawn, and the birds were cheeping in the trees. As she went she ate the black bread they had given her.
At noontide a man, travelling the same narrow road from the castle, came by the woodcutter’s hut. He carried a viol strung over his shoulder, and a lean hound padded before him. The younger woman was chopping a felled tree, the old woman gathering faggots. They rested from their work to look at the music-maker.
“Did a woman come by here—a dark woman with a red dress and a blue mantle?”
“No woman, sir.”