“Is that—bread?”
“It is as God made me make it.”
She was smiling. His quaint humility touched her.
“I will take your bread, Father Martin, and in exchange you shall eat some of mine.”
She took out a manchet wrapped in white butter cloth and held it out to him.
“Put your bread upon the table. I dare vow it cost you much honest—labor.”
She had nearly said “cursing,” but his solemn face chastened her.
Martin Valliant took her manchet, handling it as though it were something that would break. His eyes wandered around the room and noticed the wooden pallets.
“There should be some sweet hay spread there,” he said to himself.
Mellis was watching him, but with no great interest. For the moment life called to her as a fierce and impetuous adventure. She had no use for a man who wore the dress of a priest.