There
came at last a black Sunday when Joan refused to accompany Mary and the
farmer to morning worship at Sancreed. She made no excuse, but designed a
pilgrimage of more than usual length, and, having driven as far as the
church with her uncle and cousin, left them there and walked on her way.
Even the fascinations of a harvest festival failed to charm her; and the
spectacle of fat roots, mighty marrows, yellow corn and red apples on the
window-ledges, of grapes and tomatoes, flowers and loaves upon the altar,
pulpit and font, did not appeal overmuch to Joana--a fact perhaps
surprising.
With a plump pasty of meat and flour in her pocket and one of Uncle
Chirgwin's walking-sticks to help her footsteps, Joan went on her way,
passed the Wesleyan Chapel of Sancreed, and then maintained a reasonably
direct line to her destination by short cuts and field paths. She intended
to visit Men Scryfa, that famous "long stone" which stands away in a moor
croft beyond Lanyon. She knew that it was no right cross, but she
remembered it well, having visited the monument frequently in the past. It
was holy with infinite age, and the writing upon it fascinated her as a
mystery fascinates most of us.
The words, "_Rialobrani Cunovali Fili_," which probably mark the fact
that Rialobran, son of Cunoval, some Brito-Celtic chieftain of eld, lies
buried not far distant, meant nothing to Joan, but the old gray-headed
stone, perhaps the loneliest in all Cornwall, was pleasant to her thoughts,
and she trudged forward gladly with her eyes open for all the beauties of
a smiling world.
Pages:
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360