Probably because it's their usual place, but it makes me think of
witchcraft. Why is the smithy black and the mill white? Because
one's sooty and the other covered with flour; yet when I saw the
blacksmith by the light of his forge and the white miller's wife,
it reminded me of an old poem. Look at those giant faces. ...
There's your werewolf from whom I saved you. There he is, in
profile, see!

LADY. Yes, but it's only the rock.

STRANGER. Only the rock, and yet it's he.

LADY. Shall I tell you why we can see him?

STRANGER. You mean--it's our conscience? Which pricks us when we're
hungry and tired, and is silent when we've eaten and rested. It's
horrible to arrive in rags. Our clothes are torn from climbing
through the brambles. Someone's fighting against me.

LADY. Why did you challenge him?

STRANGER. Because I want to fight in the open; not battle with
unpaid bills and empty purses. Anyhow: here's my last copper. The
devil take it, if there is one! (He throws it into the brook.)

LADY. Oh! We could have paid the ferry with it. Now we'll have to
talk of money when we reach home.

STRANGER. When can we talk of anything else?