Gervaise nodded his head and continued to move forward. The horseman moved from the lane mouth into the road. Even before Gervaise turned and beckoned, Aderhold saw who it was. “The man with the hawk,” he said, and smiled.
The man of the hawk and of the silver box dismounted, threw the reins over his horse’s neck, and stepped forward to meet them. Road and lane and fields, the heap of rock amid fox-gloves where Aderhold had sat one summer afternoon, the knoll crowned by the gibbet—all lay bare of human life, whitened by the moon.
“Ha, philosopher!” said Sir Richard. “Places called of ill omen are often just the other way round! Well met again, under a harmless tree!” He put out his hand.
Aderhold clasped it. “Poor enough to say, ‘I thank you, friend!’ And yet enough when it is the very truth. I thank you, friend!”
He spoke to Joan. “This is the man who opened our prison doors.”
She came and stood beside him. “I thank you, sir. May you be through all time a friend to folk and find them friends to you!”
She stood tall and straight in man’s dress. She had cut away the lengths of hair. A man’s cap rested upon the short, thick locks. At first she made no motion to remove this cap; instead, as she faced Sir Richard, she made, involuntarily, the bend of knee that formed a curtsy; then, as instantly, she caught herself, recovered her height, and lifting her hand doffed the cap, and stood with it held against her breast.
The man from the castle gave a genial laugh. There was admiration in the sound. “Quick to learn! A flexible free mind—and courage! Good youth, I seem to remember you at the old huntsman’s house.”
“At times my father wrote for you, please you, Sir Richard. And twice or thrice you came and sat in the porch and talked with him and my uncle. And once it was cherry time, and I brought you a dish of cherries.”