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If all this prove dull to the reader, I can only tell hiraunt than lose it, as I have very often

done in the course of ions in it, so reen with never an

island of a name, that to me, at least, it is salvation to have solid

verifiable spots upon which to put a finger and say--"Here is

Waisford, here Tortsentier, here is the great river Wan, here by the

grace of God and the Countess of Hauterive is Saint Giles of Holy

Thorn" Of course to Isoult it was different She had been a forester

all her life To her there were names (and names of dread) not to be

known of any map Deerleap, One Ash, the Wolves' Valley, the Place of

the Withered Elrove, the Brook under the Brow--and a hundred more She steered by

these, with all foresters What she did not remember, or did not knoas that Maulfry had also lived in Morgraunt and knew the ways by

heart Still, she had a better mount than the Lady of Tortsentier, and

Love for a link-boy

However fast she rode for her h that shadowed land, forded brooks, stole by the edge

of wastes or swaht set bare, cliher towards the

spikes of Hauterive, upon whose woody bluffs stands High March Not

upon one beast could she have done what she did; one took her a day

and a night going at the pace she exacted She knew by her instincts