Then she turned, speaking quickly and low.

"Martin, where is my husband? Where shall I find Sir Hugh?"

"My lady," said Martin, "I saw him last in the armoury."

"The armoury?" she questioned.

"A chamber opening out of the great hall, facing toward the west, with
steps leading down into the garden."

"Even as my chamber?"

"The armoury door faces the door of your chamber, Countess. The width
of the hall lies between."

"Can I reach my chamber without entering the hall, or passing the
armoury windows? I would rid me of my travel-stains, before I make my
presence known to Sir Hugh."

"Pass round to the right, and through the buttery; then you reach the
garden and the steps up to your chamber from the side beyond the
armoury."

"Good. Tell no one of my presence, Martin. I have here the key of my
chamber. Has Sir Hugh asked for it?"

"Nay, my lady; nor guessed how often we rode hither. We reached the
castle scarce two hours ago. The Knight bathed, and changed his dusty
garments; then dined alone. After which he went into the armoury."

"When did you see him last, Martin?"

"Two minutes ago, lady. I come this moment from the hall."

"What was he doing, Martin?"

Martin Goodfellow hesitated. He knew something of love, and as much as
an honest man may know, of women. He shrewdly suspicioned what she
would expect the Knight to be doing. He was sorely tempted to give a
fancy picture of Sir Hugh d'Argent, in his lovelorn loneliness.

He looked into the clear eyes bent upon him; glanced at the firm hand,
arrested for a moment in its caress of Icon's neck; then decided that,
though the truth might probably be unexpected, a lie would most
certainly be unwise.

"Truth to tell," said Martin Goodfellow, "Sir Hugh was testing his
armour, and sharpening his battle-axe."

As Mora passed into the dim coolness of the buttery, she was conscious
of a very definite sense of surprise. She had pictured Hugh in his
lonely home, nursing his hungry heart, beside his desolate hearth. She
had seen herself coming softly behind him, laying a tender hand upon
those bowed shoulders; then, as he lifted eyes in which dull despair
would quickly give place to wondering joy, saying: "Hugh, I am come
home."

But now, as she passed through the buttery, Mora had to realise that
yet again she had failed to understand the man she loved.

It was not in him, to sit and brood over lost happiness. If she failed
him finall