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He thought perhaps he would like to see her before he left. There was a strange power in her this year, a drawing yet repelling power which swayed his desire like a wind-blown reed. Other boys might have gone to her in the night and kissed her, after they had boasted a little of their going; but then, the other boys did not dream as he did, nor did they think of her, as he sometimes did, as a loathsome being. There was surely something monstrous about him, for he could not distinguish between desire and disgust. And then, she could embarrass him so easily.

No, certainly, he would not go to her. Where had Merlin—where had any one—caught the idea that he cared a farthing for her, the daughter of a poor tenant? Not worth bothering about!

Footsteps were coming down the path behind him, loud clashes in the quiet night, and soon a quick, thin figure came up with him.

“Might it be William?” Henry asked politely, while the roadmender stopped in the path and shifted his pick from one shoulder to the other.

“It's William right enough. And what are you doing on the path, and the dark come?”

“I've been to see Merlin and to hear him talk.”

“Pest on him! That's all he ever does now. Once he made songs—good, sweet songs as I could repeat to you if I'd a mind to—but now he roosts up on that Crag-top like an old molted eagle. Once when I was going past I spoke to him about it, too, as I can prove by him. I'm not a man to be holding my tongue when I've been thinking.