“Come here then, Prue Woodseaves!”
He stooped. He set his arms about me. He lifted me to the saddle. It was
just as in the dream I had. And, as in that dream, Felena looked up,
imploring, and he took no account of her, and the noise of the people
sank away, the laughter, and the curses of Huglet and Grimble, the
clapping of the Callard children and the high voice of Granfeyther
Callard telling of a wrestling match nearly a century ago. All sank, all
faded in the quiet air. There was only the evening wind lifting the
boughs, like a lover lifting his maid’s long hair.
“Tabor on, owd nag!” says Kester, and we were going at a canter towards
the blue and purple mountains.
“But no!” I said. “It mun be frommet, Kester. You mun marry a girl like
a lily. See, I be hare-shotten!”
But he wouldna listen. He wouldna argufy. Only after I’d pleaded agen
myself a long while, he pulled up sharp, and looking down into my eyes,
he said—
“No more sad talk! I’ve chosen my bit of Paradise. ’Tis on your breast,
my dear acquaintance!”
And when he’d said those words, he bent his comely head and kissed me
full upon the mouth.
* * * * * * *
_Here ends the story of Prudence Sarn._