She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. ‘What do you want with me? Why did you catch me?’ ‘You intrigue me,’ he told her frankly. "What of her?" cried the knight. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. I will go with you. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed.
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