ditches!" says I.

"But a man's hand!" she answered.

"'Tis at hand that hath slain once this night and shall slay
again ere many hours be sped." Now here I heard her sigh as one
that is troubled.

"And yet," says she gently, "'tis no murderer's hand and you that
are vagrant and outcast are no rogue."

"How judge ye this, having never seen me?" I questioned.

"In that I am a woman. For God hath armed our weakness with a
gift of knowledge whereby we may oft-times know truth from
falsehood, the noble from the base, 'spite all their outward
seeming. So do I judge you no rogue--a strong man but very--aye,
very young that, belike, hath suffered unjustly, and being so
young art fierce and impatient of all things, and apt to rail
bitterly 'gainst the world. Is't not so?"

"Aye," says I, marvelling, "truly 'tis like witchcraft--mayhap
you will speak me my name." At this she laughed (most wonderful
to hear and vastly so to such coarse rogue as I, whose ears had
long been strangers to aught but sounds of evil and foul
obscenity):

"Nay," says she, "my knowledge of you goeth no further--but--"
(and here she paused to fetch a shuddering breath) "but for him
you killed--that two-legged beast! You did but what I would have