The Forest Lovers

"Lord, look for him in Martle Brush."

"Ah! And where is that?"

"Lord, it is here by," said Isoult.

Prosper looked about him sharply. He found that they had left the

heath, and were riding down a smooth grassy place into a deep valley.

The decline was dotted with young oak-trees, sparse at the top but

thickening in clusters and ranks lower down. Between the stems, but at

some distance, he could see a herd of deer feeding on the rank grass

by a brook at the bottom. Beyond the brook again the wood grew still

thicker with holly trees and yews interspersed with the oaks: the land

he could see rose more abruptly on that side, and was densely wooded

to the top of another ridge as high as that which he and Isoult

descended. The ridge itself was impenetrably dark with a forest gloom

which never left it at this season of the year. As he studied the

place, Martle Brush as he supposed it to be, he saw a hart in the herd

stop feeding and lift his head to snuff the air, then with his antlers

thrown back, trot off along the brook, and all the herd behind him.

This set him thinking; he knew the deer had not winded him. The breeze

set from them rather, over the valley, from the north-east. He said

nothing to his companion, but kept his eyes open as they began to

descend deeper into the gorge. Presently he saw three or four crows

which had been wheeling over the tops of the trees come and settle on

a dead oak by the brook-side. Still there was no sign of a man. Again

he glanced down at Isoult; this time she too was alert, with a little

flush in her cheeks, but no words on her lips to break the silence

they kept. So they descended the steep place, picking their way as

best they could among the loose rocks and boulders, with eyes

painfully at gaze, yet with no reward, until they reached a place

where the track went narrowly between great rooted rocks with holly

trees thick on either side. Immediately before them was the brook,

shallow and fordable, with muddy banks; the track ran on across it and

steeply up the opposite ridge. Midway of this Prosper now saw a knight

fully armed in black (but with a white plume to his helmet), sitting a

great black horse, his spear erect and his shield before him. He could

even make out the cognizance upon it--three white wicket-gates argent

on a field sable--but not the motto. The shield set him thinking where

he could have seen it before, for he knew it perfectly well. Then

suddenly Isoult said, "Lord, this is Galors the Monk."

"Ho, ho!" said Prosper, "is this Galors? I like him better than I

did."