"I know no such woman," Crosby answered. "It may seem strange to you, Master Fairley, but women have not entered much into my world. Tell me this woman's name."
"Nay, I had no instructions to do so."
"Shall I see her at the end of this journey?"
"She hath caprices like all women; how can I tell?"
"At least tell me whither we go."
"If you can read the stars you may know our direction," was the answer. "Yonder is the Wain and the North Star, and low down eastwards is the first light of a new day. We may mend our pace a little if only this poor beast of mine has it in him to do so."
It was no great pace they travelled even when they endeavoured to hasten. The fiddler's lean nag, either from ill-condition or over-work, or perchance both, could do little more than amble along, falling back into a walking pace at every opportunity. Perhaps it was as well, Crosby thought, for the fiddler seemed strangely uneasy in the saddle, and more than once apologised for his want of dexterity when he noticed his companion glance at him.
"He's a sorry beast to my way of thinking, but to his thinking maybe I'm a sorry rider. Those who have great souls to carry often have poor knees for the gripping of a saddle."
Crosby did not answer. The vision was still before him on the road, and he wondered whether Fate and this fiddler were leading him to his desire. Absorbed in his dream, he let his horse, which had no speed to boast of, suit his pace to that of the lean nag, and did not trouble to think how quickly they must be overtaken should there be any pursuit on the road behind them. So they rode forwards, their faces towards the growing dawn, and Gilbert Crosby was conscious of a new hope stirring in his soul, of an indefinable conviction that to-night was a pilgrimage, a journeying out of the past into the future.
"He rides well surely who rides towards the coming day," said Fairley suddenly, breaking a long silence. Crosby felt that it was true, and that his own thoughts had found expression.