“Thou shalt not pay me, Master Paul,” said the old dame, with a distinct note of resentment in her voice. “It is my gift to thee, because I have loved thee since thou wert a little lad; and because thou’lt need the stone. Promise me thou’lt wear it always about thee;” and plucking it from my hand with a swift insinuation of her long fingers she slipped it into a tiny pouch of dressed deerskin and proceeded to affix a leathern thong whereby I might, as I inferred, hang the talisman about my neck.
“While this you wear,” she went on in a low, singing voice, “what most you fear will never come to pass.”
“But I am not greatly given to fear, mother,” said I, with a little vainglorious laugh.
“Then thou hast not known love,” she retorted sharply.
At these words the fear of which she had spoken came about me—vague, formless, terrible, and I trembled.
“Give it to me!” I cried in haste. “Give it to me! I will repay you, mother, with”—and here I laughed again—“with love, which you say I have never known.”
“That kind of love, Master Paul, thou hast known since thou wert a very little lad. Thou’st given it freely, out of a kind heart. But, dearie, thou hast but played at the great love—or more would’st thou know of fear.” And the old woman looked at me with shrewd question in her startling eyes.
But I did know fear—and I knew that I knew love. My face turned anxiously toward De Lamourie’s, and I grudged every instant of further delay.
“Good-by, mother, and the saints keep you!” I cried hastily, swinging off through the wet grass. But the old dame called after me gently:
“Stop a minute, Master Paul. She will be at her supper by now; an’ in a little she’ll be walking in the garden path.”