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"Here are all the most precious of his writings, Al-an!" she cried, "the secrets that were in all the books that were lost written clearly so that I myself can read them! Oh, it is like having him come back to speak to us and Father Stephen, too here by ourselves in the forest! And now you will know all the secrets of his work, for they are written here."
Josian looked back at the gray pointed roofs and towers of Goslar. "Al-an," she said, "what was that light in the sky?" "It was your tower," Alan answered. "No one will ever live there again, since you cannot." Alan marveled at Josian's self-possession during the rough journey.
"Mouldi what strange beast is that, Al-an?" and Alan laughed and explained that it was a mole. It was at noon of one of the long fragrant days of early summer, while the travelers rested in the forest, that Josian spoke of the jester once more. In the green stillness of the deep woods, birds singing and shy delicate blossoms gemming the moss, the fierce and savage past was like a dream.
He had told her that colors were like notes in music, and had their loves and hates as people do. "Is it not so in your work, Al-an?" she asked. "Do not the good colors and the bad contend always until you bring them into agreement?" Alan had told her of his work, and it seemed to interest her immensely.
"It is like finding out the people who lived here when the land was young," said Wilfrid, his eyes very bright. "And there were also the men who made the dewponds," mused Master Gay. "And there were those Druids of whom my father told me," said Josian wonderingly. "This is like a fairy tale, Al-an. Is York the same?"
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