Under his tree stood Adventurer as they passed back, and close beside him the courtier pushed the hilt of a small-sword to his back and took the woman in his arms.
"Then if ye must ken," said he, shamefacedly, "I am for the road to-morrow."
The girl--ripe and full, not over-tall, well balanced, her hair waved back from over brown eyes, gathered in a knot and breaking to a curl on the nape of the neck like a wave on the shell-white shore--got hot at the skin, and a foot drummed the gravel in an ill temper.
"For yon silly cause again?" she asked, her lips thinning over her teeth.
"For the old cause," said he; "my father's, my dead brothers', my clan's, ours for a hundred years. Do not lightly the cause, my dear; it may be your children's yet."
"You never go with my will," quo' the girl again. "Here am I, far from a household of cheery sisters, so lonely, so lonely! Oh! Morag and Aoirig, and the young ones! were I back among them from this brave tomb!"
"Tomb said I, and tomb is it!" cried the woman, in a storm. "Who is here to sing with me and comfort me in the misty mornings, to hearten me when you are at wood or hill? The dreary woods, the dreary, dreary shore--they give me the gloom! My God, what a grey day!"
(And yet, by my troth, 'twas a sunny day by the feel of it, and the birds were chirming on every tree!)
The gentleman put his hands on the girl's shoulder and looked deep in her eyes, thinking hard for a wee, and biting at his low lip in a nervous way.
"At night," said he, "I speak to you of chase and the country-side's gossip. We have sometimes neighbours in our house as now,--old Askaig's goodwife and the Nun from Inishail--a good woman and pious."
Up went the lady's head, and she laughed bitter and long.
"My good husband," she said, in a weary way, "you are like all that wear trews; you have never trained your tracking but to woodcraft, or else you had found the wild-kit in a woman's heart."
"There's my love, girl, and I think you love--"
"Tuts, man! I talked not of that. Love is--love, while it lasts, and ye brag of Askaig's wife and the Nun (good Lord!), and the old harridans your cousins from Lochow!"
"'Tis but a tirrivie of yours, my dear," said the man, kindly, kissing her on the teeth, and she with her hands behind her back. "Tomorrow the saddle, Sir Claymore, and the south country! Hark ye, sweet, I'll fetch back the most darling thing woman ever dreamt of."