Old Mald came fawning out to him at this, and took his hands in her own trembling hands.
"He passed an hour agone," said she. "He will do her no wrong till he hath her at High March, trust him for that. And by now he should be near Martle, and she before him on the saddle-bow."
She began to weep and wag her silly head. Prosper made to go, having no time to waste; but, "Stop," she quavered, "and hear me out. Though the Abbot Richard was murdered at his prayers, yet withal he got his deserts, for he hatched a worse wrong than ever Galors did. The child was chained by the middle, and came to me chained riding a white palfrey. In green and white she came, and round her middle was a chain, long and supple, and a monk on horse-back held the end thereof. She came to me to the hearth at the length of her chain, and held me in her dear arms, and kissed me, cheeks and forehead. Down I sat on my stool and she on the knees of me, and she hid her face on my leanness while she spoke of you, my lord—called you her dear heart, and told of all the bitter longings she had. Ah, now! Ah, now! If you but knew."
"God forgive me," cried the lacerated wretch, "but I know it all! Yet tell me what else she said."
"There was little more," said Mald, "for the monk pulled at her, and she went as she came."
"Have they passed an hour gone?" said Prosper in a dry whisper.
"Ah, and more."
"God be with you," said he; "pray for her."
"Pray!" mocked the crone in a rage; "and pray what will that do?"
"No more than I, mother, just now. God is all about us. Farewell!"