Those who have great souls to carry often have poor knees
for the gripping of a saddle."
Crosby did not answer. The vision was still before him on the road, and
he wondered whether Fate and this fiddler were leading him to his
desire. Absorbed in his dream, he let his horse, which had no speed to
boast of, suit his pace to that of the lean nag, and did not trouble to
think how quickly they must be overtaken should there be any pursuit on
the road behind them. So they rode forwards, their faces towards the
growing dawn, and Gilbert Crosby was conscious of a new hope stirring in
his soul, of an indefinable conviction that to-night was a pilgrimage, a
journeying out of the past into the future.
"He rides well surely who rides towards the coming day," said Fairley
suddenly, breaking a long silence. Crosby felt that it was true, and
that his own thoughts had found expression.
* * * * *
The night brought no vision to Barbara Lanison, only a restless turning
to and fro upon her bed and a wild chaos of mingled doubts and fears
which defied all her efforts to bring them into order. There were still
many guests at the Abbey, but she saw little of them except at a
distance.
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