They walked side by side to the great cross, with a sudden and subtle sense of comradeship drawing them together.
Martin spread the cloak on the grass at the foot of the cross. She sat down with her back to the beam, and looked up at him in the darkness.
“You told me your man’s name—not the priest’s.”
“Valliant.”
“You are not the son of old Roger Valliant?”
“He was my father.”
Her eyes gave a gleam.
“Son of that old fire-eater! Strange!”
“He was a man of blood, my father.”
She looked at him with a new interest, a new curiosity. His bigness took on a different meaning.