Martin heard Mellis calling.
“Bread and wine—and then to bed.”
She had found a rickety, worm-eaten oak bench, and carried it out to the terrace above the garden. They sat one at each end of the bench, using the space between them as a table.
“To-morrow there will be much work for you, Martin Valliant,” she said, smiling.
“Work is the sap of life.”
“Oh, sententious man! You will build me an oven, and I will bake bread. There are plenty of fish in the mere, and some venison would help to stock our larder. You will be a slave to-morrow, Martin Valliant; we have to victual our stronghold and stop the gaps in its defenses. Every day may be precious.”
He could see that she was weary, and ready to yawn behind her hand.
“Go and sleep,” he said, when they had ended the meal; “I shall lie on guard, ready for an alarm.”
“Martin Valliant, man-at-arms!”
So Martin made his bed at the foot of the stairs, and slept across them, so that no one could pass save over his body.