"By Prosper le Gai?"
"'Tis so indeed. And well he did his work, if there's anything in
wrist play. For first he spits the Abbot, and then he sunders the
chain, and next he overhauls the girl, and next the Abbot. And he puts
her under his arm like a marketable hen, and away he gallops over the
heath. Hot work!"
"Galors' work," said Prosper to himself as he turned away.
He prayed at three altars for the man's soul, turned, mounted, and
galloped. He forded Wan. A horseman met him on the further bank,
shouting. Prosper lowered his head and shot at him as from a catapult.
The spear drove deep, the man threw his arms out, sobbed, and dropped
like a stone. Prosper went on his race.
It was growing dusk when he stood on the threshold of Matt's intake,
battering at the door. The hag-ridden face of old Mald stared out. She
parted her tattered hair from her eyes and pointed a shaky finger at
him.
"Galors," she wailed, "Galors, thou monk forsworn, thinkest thou to
have the Much-Desired? No, but her husband has her at last, and shall
have her with all that is hers--ah, though he have done murder to get
her. Swear back, Galors, and pray for thy dead master."
Prosper held up his hand to stay the tide.
"Mother, I am Prosper, the husband of the Much-Desired. No murder have
I done, though I have seen murder. And I have not my wife; but I
believe she is with Galors."
Old Mald came fawning out to him at this, and took his hands in her
own trembling hands.
"He passed an hour agone," said she. "He will do her no wrong till he
hath her at High March, trust him for that. And by now he should be
near Martle, and she before him on the saddle-bow."
She began to weep and wag her silly head. Prosper made to go, having
no time to waste; but, "Stop," she quavered, "and hear me out. Though
the Abbot Richard was murdered at his prayers, yet withal he got his
deserts, for he hatched a worse wrong than ever Galors did. The child
was chained by the middle, and came to me chained riding a white
palfrey. In green and white she came, and round her middle was a
chain, long and supple, and a monk on horse-back held the end thereof.
She came to me to the hearth at the length of her chain, and held me
in her dear arms, and kissed me, cheeks and forehead. Down I sat on my
stool and she on the knees of me, and she hid her face on my leanness
while she spoke of you, my lord--called you her dear heart, and told
of all the bitter longings she had. Ah, now! Ah, now! If you but
knew."