known you restless after a week of strict observance. Now and again I’ve wondered if some day you wouldn’t set out for Saint Giles, and end up in Jerusalem.”
“Oh, no, not that!” said Cadfael, with serene certainty. “It’s true, now and again my feet itch for the road.” He was looking deep into himself, where old memories survived, and remained, after their fashion, warming and satisfying, but of the past, never to be repeated, no longer desirable. “But when it comes down to it,” said Cadfael, with profound content, “as roads go, the road home is as good as any.”
THE END
<BookMark>
Вы читаете Summer of the Danes
