“I am young—still. Oh, these jealous tangles that men weave! Must we be little and thankless for the sake of fools?”
Mellis made her way through the crowd of mesne lords and gentlemen, looking neither to the right hand nor the left. They stood back for her, for she was proud, more pure in her strength than they. The moon hung clear and white and splendid in the sky, shining on her face and the plated steel half hidden by her hair.
“So they would think him an outcast,” she said to herself. “My scorn is theirs for the asking.”
Some instinct led her through the garden into the orchard, where the long grass was all patterned with the black shadows of the trees. She stood in the moonlight, and called softly:
“Martin—Martin Valliant!”
Old Swartz crept away, a dog grown mute, and wise in his silence. Martin’s face was all twisted with a spasm of pain, for he was fey that night with a mysterious forefeeling of great sorrow and despair.
“Martin—Martin Valliant!”
She came down through the orchard, and Martin rose to his feet. The moonlight through the trees shone on his harness, and betrayed him to her. He stood absolutely still, waiting for her to draw near.
“Martin!”
Her voice had a soft, wounded plaintiveness.