"I pipe not for lordings, little master," the youth returned, anger yet burning in his eyes.
"Nay, then, I 'm no lord," laughed the child; "my father is a vintner in London. He hath got me in Prince Lionel's household by favour of the king; for that the king loveth his merchants of the city; and well he may, my father saith. There be others, lordings, among the children of the household; but I am none. I am a plain man like to thee, poet."
The dreamer shook his head with a mournful smile. "Not so close to the soil, master merchant, not so close to the soil. I smell o' the furrow."
"Nay, I 'm no merchant, neither," the lad protested. "Hark in thine ear, thou long brown stranger,--and I 'll call thee brother! My lady saith I 'll be a poet. She 's a most wise and lovely lady. Come,--tell me a tale!"
"I am no troubadour," sighed the brown youth; "I know one tale only, and that is over long for a summer day."
But the child was angered; his eyes flashed, and he clenched one hand and flung it backward, menacing:--
"I 'll believe thou mockest me," he cried. "Lying tongue! No poet thou, but a lazy hind."
Then the gray, smouldering eyes of the dreamer shot fire, and a long brown arm jerked the lad to his knees.
"I tell no lies. My lady is Saint Truth," the dreamer said. "Poet or no poet, as thou wilt, I 'll not gainsay thee. But a truthteller ever."
A little lamb that strayed near by looked up with startled face, and scampered down the hill, crying "Ba-a-a!" The huntsman's note came winding up from the green depths. The child arose and dusted his knees.
"There be poets that yet lie amazingly,--and boast thereof," he observed shrewdly; "but now I rede thy riddle of Saint Truth. 'T is a sweet jest. I love thee for it, and by that I know thee for a poet. Tell me thy tale, and we 'll be friends again. Of a surety thou art no hind; Prince Lionel's self is not more haughty of mien than thou. Sing then, poet,--smile!"
The dreamer cleared his brow but half unwillingly: "Who could not choose but smile on such a teasing lad?" he asked; and then, "My tale is but begun, and what the end shall be, or whether there be an end,--who shall say? Hearken!
In a summer season when soft was the sun, I set me in a shepherd's coat as I a shepherd were; In the habit of a hermit, yet unholy of works, Wandered I wide in this world wonders to hear. But in a May morning on Malvern Hills There befel me a wonder, wonderful methought it; I was weary of wandering and went me to rest Under a broad bank by a burn side, And as I lay and leaned and looked on the waters, I slumbered in a sleep"--