As for Andreas, he grew presently conscious of fatigue, and lay back upon his couch of leaves as his narrative unfolded. Then, the instant spur of food and warmth becoming spent, his voice grew fainter, and in the returning weakness his thoughts wandered from the thread of the sublime story to tender memories of how it had been illumined and decked out in his old German home.
"Ach, lieber Tannenbaum!" he murmured, with the firelight in his dreamy eyes. "It was a sight to live for, Dickon--the beautiful fir tree before you, with burning candles fastened in among the branches, and Christmas gifts hanging underneath,--every little minute something new you found,--and father, mother, brothers, sisters, all in the happy ring around the tree, with joyful songs and good wishes--woe! woe! I shall never see it again!"
"That thou shalt, and hundreds of them," said Dickon, cheerily.
But Andreas shook his head in sadness, and gazed into the crackling blaze as though it were a tomb.
"Old Geraldus and I would have had a tree," he sighed at last. "Each year since we came out from Augsburg we made us one, and sang the dear old German songs, and gave each other gifts. And this year we were both to give this goodly 'Troilus' to Sir John--and lo! they are both murdered, dead, and I am following them, close at their heels--and 'Troilus' will come to naught. And never had more cunning and shapely work been done, not even in Augsburg!"
"Is it far--that 'Owg'--what name do you call it?" asked Dickon. "As far as London town?"
The lad smiled faintly from where he lay. "It is across the sea, and many days' journey still."
"And does the king come there oftener than into Shropshire?"
"Dull boy! There your king durst never come. It is not his country. There is an emperor, and then a Wittelsbach Duke, but even these may not come into Augsburg if the burghers say them nay. The tongue is different there from yours, and so, glory be to the saints, are the manners, too. There learning flourishes, and men are gentle, and books like poor Troilus yonder are monthly made by dozens."
"Wherefore came you hither, then?" queried Dickon, with rude islander logic.
"It was the madness in my master's head. He deemed that here he should be welcome, bringing a new craft to make knowledge common. But these be beasts here in Shropshire, not men. They desire not books, but only blood and battle and red meat."