een in the way," said Wullie wistfully,
and she ran out of the hut, unable to bear the pity of that, right up on
Ben Grief. But before she reached the top she had to take off the tight
bandages, for she found she could scarcely breathe, much less climb in
them, and her shoes and stockings she hid under a bush until she came
back, for they crippled her feet.

For three days she did not bathe and undressed in the dark every night.
But after that the water called her insistently, and she went back to
it, swimming in a deliberately unconscious way, as though she had
promised someone she would not notice herself any more.

But insensibly her dreams changed; instead of being a Deliverer now she
dreamed, in spite of herself, of a Deliverer with whom she could go hand
in hand; as the mild May days drew along to a hot June the dreams varied
strangely. Up on Ben Grief all alone in the wind, hungry and blown about
she would see herself preaching in the wilderness, eating locusts and
wild honey, clad in the roughest sheep-skins. At home, or on Lashnagar,
or in the water she saw herself like Britomart in armour--always in
armour--while a knight rode at her side. When they came to dragons or
giants she was always a few paces in front--she never troubled to
question whether the knight objected to this arrangement or not. At
feasts in the palace, or when homage was being done by vast assembled
throngs of rescued people, he and she were together, and together when
they played. She had definitely dismissed the doctor's talk of natural
weakness. Not realizing all its implications she had nevertheless quite
deliberately taken on the man's part.

Then came a gipsy to the kitchen door one morning when Jean was in the
byre. It was a good thing Jean was not there or she would have driven
her away as a spaewife. She asked for water. Marcella gave her oatcake
and milk and stood looking at her olive skin, her flashing eyes, her
bright shawl curiously.

As she drank and ate slowly she watched Marcella without a word. At last
she said in a hoarse voice:

"You will go on strange roads."

"I wish I could," said Marcella, flushed with eagerness. "This place
is--"

"You will go on strange roads and take the man you need," said the gipsy
again.

Marcella glimpsed her splendid knight riding in at the gate with her,
and the farm-yard ceased to be muddy and dirty and decayed; it became a
palace courtyard, with glittering courtiers thronging round