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.
"Truth to tell," said Martin Goodfellow, "Sir Hugh was testing his armour, and sharpening his battle-axe." As Mora passed into the dim coolness of the buttery, she was conscious of a very definite sense of surprise.

She had pictured Hugh in his lonely home, nursing his hungry heart, beside his desolate hearth.