think you, archer, that what
a woman loves in man is not his gross body, but rather his soul, his
honor, his fame, the deeds with which he has made his life beautiful.
Therefore you are winning love as well as glory when you turn to the
wars."

"It may be so," said Aylward; "but indeed it goes to my heart to see the
pretty dears weep, and I would fain weep as well to keep them company.
When Mary--or was it Dolly?--nay, it was Martha, the red-headed girl
from the mill--when she held tight to my baldric it was like snapping my
heart-string to pluck myself loose."

"You speak of one name and then of another," said Nigel. "How is she
called then, this maid whom you love?"

Aylward pushed back his steel cap and scratched his bristling head with
some embarrassment. "Her name," said he, "is Mary Dolly Martha Susan
Jane Cicely Theodosia Agnes Johanna Kate."

Nigel laughed as Aylward rolled out this prodigious title. "I had no
right to take you to the wars," said he; "for by Saint Paul! it is very
clear that I have widowed half the parish. But I saw your aged father
the franklin. Bethink you of the joy that will fill his heart when he
hears that you have done some small deed in France, and so won honor in
the eyes of all."

"I fear that honor will not help him to pay his arrears of rent to the
sacrist of Waverley," said Aylward. "Out he will go on the roadside,
honor and all, if he does not find ten nobles by next Epiphany. But if I
could win a ransom or be at the storming of a rich city, then indeed the
old man would be proud of me. 'Thy sword must help my spade, Samkin,'
said he as he kissed me goodby. Ah! it would indeed be a happy day for
him and for all if I could ride back with a saddle-bag full of gold
pieces, and please God, I shall dip my hand in somebody's pocket before
I see Crooksbury Hill once more!"

Nigel shook his head, for indeed it seemed hopeless to try to bridge the
gulf between them. Already they had made such good progress along the
bridle-path through the heather that the little hill of Saint Catharine
and the ancient shrine upon its summit loomed up before them. Here
they crossed the road from the south to London, and at the crossing
two wayfarers were waiting who waved their hands in greeting, the one
a tall, slender, dark woman upon a white jennet, the other a very thick
and red-faced old man, whose weight seemed to curve the back of the
stout gray cob which he bestrode.

"What how, Nigel!" he