With a gentle caress on the arch of his snowy neck, and with soft words in the anxiously pointing ears, she encouraged the palfrey to go forward.

At length they rounded a great grey rock jutting out into the path, and the upward slope of a mossy glade came into view.

With a whinny of pleasure, Icon laid back his ears and broke into a swift canter.

Up the glade they flew; out into the sunshine; clear into the open.

Here was the moor!  Here the highroad, at last!  And there in the distance, the grey walls of Hugh’s castle; the portals of home.

* * * * * *

It was the Knight’s trusted foster-brother, Martin Goodfellow, amazed, yet smiling a glad welcome, who held Icon’s bridle as Mora dismounted in the courtyard.

She fondled the palfrey’s nose, laying her cheek against his neck.  For the moment it became imperative that she should hide her happy eyes even from this faithful fellow, in whom she had learned to place entire confidence.

“Icon, brave and beautiful!” she whispered.  “Thou hast carried me here where I longed to be.  Thy feet were well-nigh as swift as my desire.”

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.