He gaped at her, as though overcome by the thought that this creature of mystery was to move and breathe in the guest-house next his cell.
He tried to save his dignity by taking refuge in sententiousness.
“I am the servant of St. Florence and of all those who tarry here.”
She glanced at him guardedly, and seemed to realize his unworldliness.
“I shall be no great burden. A stall for the horse and a roof for my own head. I can look to my own horse, if you will show me the stable.”
Martin let the hoe drop out of his hands. He went striding along the hedge as though some enchantment had fallen upon him. But she was out of the saddle by the time he reached the gate, and, by the way she carried herself, more than fit to deal with her own affairs.
“That is the stable, there by the woodstack?”
“Yes.”
“Is the door locked? No? I thank you, good father.”
He loitered about there like a great boy, feeling that he ought to help her, but that she did not desire his help. She seemed to have a way of taking possession of things. He could see her removing the saddle and bridle from her horse, and presently she was at the haystack gathering up some of the loose hay in her arms. She had left her brown cloak in the stable, and her blue spencer and green gown made Martin think of some rich blue flower on a green stalk.