y not down awhile. But the Lady made herself a bed of
the bracken which was over from those that Ralph had gathered for the
bed of the wounded Knight; and the Friar lay down on the grass nigh to
her, and both were presently asleep.

Then Ralph got up quietly; and, shamefacedly for very love, passed
close beside the sleeping woman as he went to his place by the horses,
taking his weapons and wargear with him: and he said to himself as he
laid him down, that it was good for him to be quite alone, that he
might lie awake and think at his ease of all the loveliness and
kindness of his Lady. Howbeit, he was a young man, and a sturdy, used
to lying abroad in the fields or the woods, and it was his custom to
sleep at once and sweetly when he lay down after the day's work had
wearied him, and even so he did now, and was troubled by no dreams of
what was past or to come.

BOOK TWO

The Road Unto Trouble

CHAPTER 1

Ralph Meets With Love in the Wilderness

He woke up while it was yet night, and knew that he had been awakened
by a touch; but, like a good hunter and warrior, he forebore to start
up or cry out till sleep had so much run off him that he could tell
somewhat of what was toward. So now he saw the Lady bending over him,
and she said in a kind and very low voice: "Rise up, young man, rise
up, Ralph, and say no word, but come with me a little way into the wood
ere dawn come, for I have a word for thee."

So he stood up and was ready to go with her, his heart beating hard for
joy and wonder. "Nay," she whispered, "take thy sword and war-gear
lest ill befall: do on thine hauberk; I will be thy squire." And she
held his war-coat out for him to do on. "Now," she said, still softly,
"hide thy curly hair with the helm, gird thy sword to thee, and come
without a word."

Even so he did, and therewithal felt her hand take his (for it was dark
as they stepped amidst the trees), and she led him into the Seventh
Heaven, for he heard her voice, though it were but a whisper, as it
were a caress and a laugh of joy in each word.

She led him along swiftly, fumbling nought with the paths betwixt the
pine-tree boles, where it was as dark as dark might be. Every minute
he looked to hear her say a word of why she had brought him thither,
and that then she would depart from him; so he prayed that the silence
and the holding of his hand might last a long while--for he might
think of naught save her--and long