In the weeping grey of an autumn morning, but in great spirits of his
own, Prosper left Gracedieu for High March. The satisfaction of having
braved the worst of an adventure was fairly his; to have made good
disposition of what threatened to fetter him by shutting off any
possible road from his advance; and to have done this (so far as he
could see) without in any sense withdrawing from Isoult the advantages
she could expect--this was tunable matter, which set him singing
before the larks were off the ground. He felt like a man who has
earned his pleasure; and pleasure, as he understood it, he meant to
have. The zest for it sparkled in his quick eyes as he rode briskly
through the devious forest ways. Had Galors or any other dark-entry
man met him now and chanced a combat, he would have bad it with a
will, but he would have got off with a rough tumble and sting or two
from the flat of the sword. The youth was too pleased with himself for
killing or slicing.
However, there was nobody to fight. North Morgraunt was pretty
constantly patrolled by the Countess's riders at this time. A few
grimy colliers; some chair-turners amid their huts and white chips on
the edge of a hidden hamlet; drovers with forest ponies going for
Waisford or Market Basing; the hospitality and interminable devotions
of a hermit by a mossy crucifix on Two Manors Waste; one night alone
in a ruined chapel on the top of a down:--of such were the encounters
and events of his journey. He was no Don Quixote to make desperadoes
or feats of endurance out of such gear; on the contrary, he
persistently enjoyed himself. Sour beer wetted his lips dry with
talking; leaves made a capital bed; the hermit, in the intervals of
his prayers, remembered his own fighting days in the Markstake, and
knew what was done to make Maximilian the Second safely king.
Everything was as it should be.
On the third day he fell in with a troop of horse, whose spears
carried the red saltire of the house of Forz on their banneroles.
Since they were bound as he was for the Castle, he rode in their
company, and in due course saw before him on a height among dark pines
the towers of High March, with the flag of the Lady Paramount afloat
on the breeze. It was on a dusty afternoon of October and in a whirl
of flying leaves, that he rode up to the great gate of the outer
bailey, and blew a blast on the horn which hung there, that they might
let down the bridge.
When the Countess Isabel heard who and of what condition her visitor
was she made him very welcome. The Forz and the Gais were of the same
country and of nearly the same degree in it. She had been a Forz
before she married, and she counted herself so still, for the earldom
of Hauterive was hers in her own right; and though she was Earl
Roger's widow (and thus a double Countess Dowager) she could not but
remember it. So she did Prosper every honour of hospitality: she sent
some of her ladies to disarm him and lead him to the bath; she sent
him soft clothing to do on when he was ready for it; in a word, put
him at his ease. When he came into the hall it was the same thing she
got up from her chair of estate and walked down to meet him, while all
the company made a lane for the pair of them. Prosper would have knelt
to kiss her hand had she let him, but instead she gave it frankly into
his own.