I was on my feet again and into the woods — ^not
traversing, on the way, a certain poppy-sprinkled
field whence a fine Norman stallion snorted ridicule



CHAPTER EIGHT 107

over a wall. But the fortune of Keredec was to
sink as I rose. His summer rheumatism returned,
came to grips with him, laid him low. We hobbled
together for a day or so, then I threw away my
stick and he exchanged his for an improvised crutch.
By the time I was fit to run, he was able to do little
better than to creep — might well have taken to his
bed. But as he insisted that his pupil should not
forego the daily long walks and the health of the
forest, it came to pass that Saflfren often made me
the objective of his rambles. At dinner he usually
asked in what portion of the forest I should be paint-
ing late the next afternoon, and I got in the habit
of expecting him to join me toward sunset. We
located each other through a code of yodeling that
we arranged; his part of these vocal gymnastics
being very pleasant to hear, for he had a flexible,
rich voice. I shudder to recall how largely my own
performances partook of the grotesque. But in the
forest where were no musical persons (I supposed)
to take hurt from whatever noise I made, I would
let go with all the lungs I had; he followed the
horrid sounds to their origin, and we would return
to the inn together.
