But the voice, Hugh thought when he left his friend, was notthat of a man fully confident of a good ending, nor the set of theface indicative of one absolute in faith and prepared to sit backand leave all either to Olivier or to God.

When Hugh was gone, with his own cares to keep him fullyoccupied, and his errand in friendship faithfully discharged,Cadfael damped down his brazier with turves, closed his workshop,and went away to the church. There was an hour yet to Vespers.Brother Winfrid was still methodically digging over a bed clearedof beans, to leave it to the frosts of the coming winter to crumbleand refine. A thin veil of yellowed leaves still clung to thetrees, and the roses were grown tall and leggy, small, cold budsforming at the tips, buds that would never open.

In the vast, dim quiet of the church Cadfael made amicableobeisance to the altar of Saint Winifred, as to an intimate butrevered friend, but for once hesitated to burden her with a chargefor another man, and one even she might find hard to understand.True, Olivier was half Welsh, but that, hand in hand with all thatwas passionately Syrian in his looks and thoughts and principles,might prove even more confusing to her. So the only prayer he madeto her was made without words, in the heart, offering affection ina gush of tenderness like the smoke of incense. She had forgivenhim so much, and never shut him out. And this same year she hadsuffered flood and peril and contention, and come back safely to adeserved rest. Why disturb its sweetness with a trouble whichbelonged all to himself?