  How Pertinax plied angle to his sport And, catching him no fish, fish-like was caught.
By sleepy stream where bending willows swayed, And, from the sun, a greeny twilight made, Sir Pertinax, broad back against a tree, Lolled at his ease and yawned right lustily. In brawny fist he grasped a rod or angle, With hook wherefrom sad worm did, writhing, dangle. Full well he loved the piscatorial sport, Though he as yet no single fish had caught. Hard by, in easy reach upon the sward, Lay rusty bascinet and good broadsword. Thus patiently the good Knight sat and fished, Yet in his heart most heartily he wished That he, instead of fishing, snug had been Seated within his goodly tower of Shene. And thinking thus, he needs must cast his eye On rusty mail, on battered shoon, and sigh, And murmur fitful curses and lament That in such base, unknightly garb he went— A lord of might whose broad shield bravely bore Of proud and noble quarterings a score. “And 't was forsooth for foolish ducal whim That he must plod abroad in such vile trim!” Revolving thus, his anger sudden woke, And, scowling, to the unseen fish he spoke: “A Duke! A Fool! A fool-duke, by my head! Who, clad like Fool, like Fool will fain be wed, For ass and dolt and fool of fools is he Who'll live in bondage to some talk-full she. Yet, if he'll wed, why i' the foul fiend's name, Must he in motley seek the haughty dame?” But now, while he did on this problem dwell, Two unexpected happenings befell: A fish to nibble on the worm began, And to him through the green a fair maid ran. Fast, fast amid the tangled brake she fled, Her cheeks all pale, her dark eyes wide with dread; But Pertinax her beauty nothing heeded, Since both his eyes to watch his fish were needed; But started round with sudden, peevish snort As in slim hands his brawny fist she caught; “Ha, maid!” he cried, “Why must thou come this way To spoil my sport and fright mine fish away?” “O man—O man, if man thou art,” she gasped, “Save me!” And here his hand she closer grasped, But even now, as thus she breathless spake, Forth of the wood three lusty fellows brake; Goodly their dress and bright the mail they wore, While on their breasts a falcon-badge they bore. “Oho!” cried one. “Yon dirty knave she's met!” Sir Pertinax here donned his bascinet. “But one poor rogue shan't let us!” t' other roared. Sir Pertinax here reached and drew his sword. “Then,” cried the third, “let's at him now all three!” Quoth Pertinax: “Maid, get thee 'hind yon tree, For now, methinks, hast found me better sport Than if, forsooth, yon plaguy fish I'd caught.” So saying, up he rose and, eyes a-dance He 'gainst the three did joyously advance, With sword that flashed full bright, but brighter yet The eyes beneath his rusty bascinet; While aspect bold and carriage proud and high, Did plainly give his mean array the lie. Thus, as he gaily strode to meet the three, In look and gesture all proud knight was he; Beholding which, the maid forgot her dread, And, 'stead of pale, her cheek glowed softly red. Now at the three Sir Pertinax did spring, And clashing steel on steel did loudly ring, Yet Pertinax was one and they were three, And once was, swearing, smitten to his knee, Whereat the maid hid face in sudden fear, And, kneeling so, fierce cries and shouts did hear, The sounds of combat dire, and deadly riot Lost all at once and hushed to sudden quiet, And glancing up she saw to her amaze Three rogues who fleetly ran three several ways, Three beaten rogues who fled with one accord, While Pertinax, despondent, sheathed his sword. “Par Dex!” he growled, “'Tis shame that they should run Ere that to fight the rogues had scarce begun!” So back he came, his rod and line he took, And gloomed to find no worm upon his hook. But now the maiden viewed him gentle-eyed; “Brave soldier, I do thank thee well!” she sighed, “Thou, like true knight, hast fought for me today—” “And the fish,” sighed he, “have stole my worm away, Which is great pity, since my worms be few!” And here the Knight's despond but deeper grew. “Yon rogues,” he sighed, “no stomach had for fight, Yet scared the fish that had a mind to bite!” “But thou hast saved me, noble man!” said she. “So must I use another worm!” sighed he. And straightway with his fishing he proceeded While sat the maid beside him all unheeded; Whereat she frowned and, scornful, thus did speak With angry colour flaming in her cheek: “What man art thou that canst but fight and fish? Hast thou no higher thought, no better wish?” “Certes,” quoth he, “I would I had indeed A goodly pot of foaming ale or mead.” “O base, most base!” the maid did scornful cry, And viewed him o'er with proud, disdainful eye. “That I should owe my life to man like thee! That one so base could fight and master three! Who art thou, man, and what? Speak me thy name, Whither ye go and why, and whence ye came, Thy rank, thy state, thy worth to me impart, If soldier, serf, or outlawed man thou art; And why 'neath ragged habit thou dost wear A chain of gold such as but knights do bear, Why thou canst front three armed rogues unafraid, Yet fear methinks to look upon a maid?” But to these questions Pertinax sat dumb— That is, he rubbed his chin and murmured, “Hum!” Whereat she, frowning, set determined chin And thus again to question did begin: SHE: What manner of man art thou? HE: A man. SHE: A soldier? HE: Thou sayest. SHE: Art in service? HE: Truly. SHE: Whom serve ye? HE: A greater than I. SHE: Art thou wed? HE: The Saints forfend! SHE: Then art a poor soldier and solitary. HE: I might be richer. SHE: What dost thou fishing here? HE: I fish. SHE: And why didst fight three men for me—a maid unknown? HE: For lack of better employ. SHE: Rude soldier—whence comest thou? HE: Fair maiden, from beyond. SHE: Gross Knight, whither goest thou? HE: Dainty damosel, back again. SHE: Dost lack aught? HE: Quiet! SHE: How, would'st have me hold my peace, ill fellow? HE: 'T would be a marvel. SHE: Wherefore? HE: Thou'rt a woman. SHE: And thou a man, ill-tongued, ill-beseen, ill-mannered, unlovely, and I like thee not! HE: And what is worse, the fish bite not. Now here, and very suddenly, she fell a-weeping, to the Knight's no small discomfiture, though she wept in fashion wondrous apt and pretty; wherefore Sir Pertinax glanced at her once, looked twice and, looking, scratched his ear, rubbed his chin and finally questioned her in turn: HE: Distressful damosel, wherefore this dole? SHE: For that I am weary, woeful and solitary. And thou—thou'rt harsh of look, rough of tongue, ungentle of—HE: Misfortunate maiden, thy loneliness is soon amended, get thee to thy friends—thy gossips, thy— SHE: I have none. And thou'rt fierce and ungentle of face. Here she wept the more piteously and Sir Pertinax, viewing her distress, forgot his hook and worm, wherefore a fish nibbled it slyly, while the Knight questioned her further: HE: Woeful virgin, whence comest thou? SHE: From afar. And thou art ofeatures grim and— HE: And whither would'st journey? SHE: No where! And thou art— HE: Nay, here is thing impossible, since being here thou art somewhere and that within three bowshots of the goodly town of Canalise wherein thou shalt doubtless come by comfort and succour. SHE: Never! Never! Here will I weep and moan and perish. And thou— HE: And wherefore moan and perish? SHE: For that I am so minded, being a maid forlorn and desolate, a poor wanderer destitute of kith, of kin, of hope, of love, and all that maketh life sweet. And thou art sour-faced and— HE: Grievous maid, is, among thy many wants, a lack of money? SHE: That also. And thou art cold of eye, fierce of mouth, hooked of nose, flinty of heart, stony of soul, and I a perishing maid. At this Sir Pertinax blinked and caught his breath; thereafter he laid down his rod, whereupon the fish incontinent filched his worm all unnoticed while the Knight opened the wallet at his girdle and took thence certain monies. HE: Dolorous damsel, behold six good, gold pieces! Take them and go, get thee to eat—eat much, so shall thy dolour wax less, eat beef—since beef is a rare lightener of sorrow, by beef shall thy woes be comforted. SHE: Alas! I love not beef. Now here Sir Pertinax was dumb a space for wonder at her saying, while she stole a glance at him betwixt slender fingers. HE (after some while): Maid, I tell thee beef, fairly cooked and aptly seasoned, is of itself a virtue whereby the body is strengthened and nourished, whereby cometh content, and with content kindliness, and with kindliness charity, and therewith all other virtues small and eke great; therefore eat beef, maiden, for the good of thy soul. “How?” said she, viewing him bright-eyed 'twixt her fingers again. “Dost think by beef one may attain to paradise?” HE: Peradventure. SHE: Then no beef, for I would not live a saint yet awhile. HE: Nathless, take thou these monies and go buy what thou wilt. So saying, Sir Pertinax set the coins beside her shapely foot and took up his neglected rod. SHE: And is this gold truly mine? HE: Verily. SHE: Then I pray thee keep it for me lest I lose it by the way and so—let us begone. Here Sir Pertinax started. “Begone?” quoth he. “Begone—in truth? Thou and I in faith? Go whither?” SHE: Any whither. HE: Alone? Thou and I? “Nay, not alone,” she sighed; “let us go together.” Sir Pertinax dropped his fishing-rod and watched it idly float away down the stream: “Together, maiden?” said he at last. “Truly!” she sighed. “For thou art lonely even as I am lonely, and thou art, methinks, one a lonely maid may trust.” “Ha—trust!” quoth he. “And wherefore would'st trust me, maiden?” SHE: For two reasons—thou art of age mature and something ill-favoured. Now, at this Sir Pertinax grew angered, grew thoughtful, grew sad and, beholding his image mirrored in the waters, sighed for his grim, unlovely look and, in his heart, cursed his vile garb anew. At last he spoke: HE: Truly thou may'st trust me, maiden. SHE: And wherefore sighest thou, sad soldier? HE: Verily for thy two reasons. Though, for mine age, I am not forty turned. Saying which, he sighed again, and stared gloomily into the murmurous waters. But presently, chancing to look aside, he beheld a head low down amid the underwood, a head huge and hairy with small, fierce eyes that watched him right bodefully, and a great mouth that grinned evilly; and now as he stared, amazed by this monstrous head, it nodded grimly, speaking thus: “Ha!” quoth Sir Pertinax, rising and drawing sword. “Now, be thou imp of Satan, fiend accursed, or goblin fell, come forth, and I with steel will try thee, Thing!” Out from the leaves forthwith crawled a dwarf bowed of leg, mighty of shoulder, humped of back, and with arms very long and thick and hairy. In one great fist he grasped a ponderous club shod with iron spikes, and now, resting his hands on this and his chin on his hands, he scowled at the Knight, yet grinned also. “Ho!” he cried, rolling big head in threatening fashion: “Vile dog, thy rogue's sconce cracked shall be, Thy base-born bones be-thwacked shall be. I'll deal thee many a dour ding For that thou darest name me—Thing!” “Now, as I live!” said Sir Pertinax, scowling also. “Here will I, and with great joyance, cleave me thine impish mazzard and split thee to thy beastly chine. And for thy ill rhyming: “I with this goodly steel will halve thee And into clammy goblets carve thee. So stand, Thing, to thy club betake thee, And soon, Thing, I will no-thing make thee.” But, as they closed on each other with eager and deadly intent, the maid stepped lightly betwixt. “Stay, soldier—hold!” she commanded. “Here is none but Lobkyn Lollo—poor, brave Lob, nor will I suffer him to harm thee.” “How, maiden?” snorted the good Knight fiercely. “Harm me, say'st thou—yon puny Thing?” “Truly, soldier!” said she, roguish-eyed. “For though thou art very ungentle, harsh of tongue, of visage grim and manners rude—I would not have Lob harm thee—yet!” Now hereupon our bold Sir Pertinax With indignation red of face did wax. The needful word his tongue was vainly seeking, Since what he felt was quite beyond the speaking. Though quick his hand to ward or give a blow, His tongue all times unready was and slow, Therefore he speechless looked upon the maid, Who viewed him 'neath her lashes' dusky shade, Whence Eros launched a sudden beamy dart That 'spite chain-mail did reach and pierce his heart. And in that instant Pertinax grew wise, And trembled 'neath this forest-maiden's eyes; And trembling, knew full well, seek where he might, No eyes might hold for him such magic light, No lips might hold for him such sweet allure, No other hand might his distresses cure, No other voice might so console and cheer, No foot, light-treading, be so sweet to hear As the eyes, lips, hand, voice, foot of her who stood Before him now, cheek flushing 'neath her hood. All this Sir Pertinax had in his thought, And, wishing much to say to her, said nought, By reason that his tongue was something slow, And of smooth phrases he did little know. But yet 't is likely, though he nothing said, She, maid-like, what he spake not, guessed or read In his flushed brow, his sudden-gentle eyes, Since in such things all maids are wondrous wise. Now suddenly the brawny Dwarf did cry: “Beware, my old great-grand-dam creepeth nigh!” Thus speaking, 'mid the bushes pointed he, Where crook'd old woman crouched beneath a tree Whence, bowed upon a staff, she towards them came, An ancient, wrinkled, ragged, hag-like dame With long, sharp nose that downward curved as though It fain would, beak-like, peck sharp chin below. Mutt'ring she came and mowing she drew near, And straightway seized the Dwarf by hairy ear: Fast by the ear this ancient dame did tweak him, And cuffed his head and, cuffing, thus did speak him: “Ha, dolt! Bad elf, and wilt thou slay, indeed, This goodly man did aid me in my need? For this was one that fought within the gate And from Black Lewin saved thy grannam's pate! Down, down, fool-lad, upon thy knees, I say, And full forgiveness of this soldier pray.” But Sir Pertinax, perceiving how the old dame did thus tweak and wring at the Dwarf's great, hairy ear even until his eyes watered, interceded, saying: “Good, ancient soul, humble not the sturdy, unlovely, mis-shapen, rascally imp for such small matter.” “Nay, but,” croaked the old woman, tightening claw-like fingers, “kind master, he would doubtless have slain thee.” At this, Sir Pertinax scowled, and would have sworn great oath but, meeting the maid's bright eyes, checked himself, though with much ado: “Art so sure,” he questioned, “so sure man of my inches may be slain by thing so small?” At this the maid laughed, and the old woman, sighing, loosed the ear she clutched: “Shew thy strength, Lob,” she commanded and, drawing the maiden out of ear-shot, sat down beside her on the sward and fell to eager, whispered talk. Meantime the Dwarf, having cherished his ear, sulkily though tenderly, seized hold upon his great club with both hairy hands: And whirling it aloft, with sudden might A fair, young tree in sunder he did smite, That 'neath the blow it swayed and crashing fell. Quoth Pertinax: “Good Thing, 't is very well. Par Dex, and by the Holy Rood,” quoth he, “'T is just as well that I was not yon tree!” And whirling his long sword as thus he spoke, Shore through another at a single stroke. “Here's tree for tree, stout manling!” he did say. “What other trick canst show to me, I pray?” Then Lobkyn stooped the broken stump to seize, Bowed brawny back and with a wondrous ease Up by the roots the rugged bole he tore And tossed it far as it had been a straw. Sad grew our knight this mighty feat perceiving, Since well he knew't was past his own achieving. But anon he smiled and clapped the mighty Dwarf on shoulder, saying: “Greeting to thee, lusty Lob, for by Our Holy Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood, ne'er saw I thine equal, since thou, being man so small, may do what man o' my goodly inches may nowise perform. Thou should'st make a right doughty man-at-arms!” Hereupon the Dwarf cut a caper but sighed thereafter: quoth he: “Aha, good master, and Oho, As man-at-arms fain would I go; Aye, verily, I would be so, But that my grannam sayeth 'No!' “And, sir, my grand-dam I obey Since she's a potent witch, they say; Can cast ye spells by night or day And charmeth warts and such away. “Love philtres too she can supply For fools that fond and foolish sigh, That wert thou foul as hog in sty Fair women must unto thee fly. “Then deadly potions she can make, Will turn a man to wriggling snake, Or slimy worm, or duck, or drake, Or loathly frog that croaks in lake. “And she can curse beyond compare, Can curse ye here, or curse ye there; She'll curse ye clad or curse ye bare, In fine, can curse ye anywhere. “And she can summon, so 't is said, From fire and water, spirits dread, Strong charms she hath can wake the dead And set the living in their stead. “So thus it is, whate'er she say, My grand-dam, master, I obey.” “Now by my head,” quoth Sir Pertinax, “an thy grand-dam hath a potency in spells and such black arts—the which is an ill thing—thou hast a powerful gift of versification the which, methinks, is worse. How cometh this distemper o' the tongue, Lobkyn?” “O master,” spake the sighful Dwarf forlorn, “Like many such diseases, 't is inborn. For even as a baby, I Did pule in rhyme and versify; And the stronger that I grew, My rhyming habit strengthened too, Until my sad sire in despair Put me beneath the Church's care. The holy fathers, 't is confessed, With belt and sandal did their best, But, though they often whipped me sore, I, weeping, did but rhyme the more, Till, finding all their efforts vain, They sadly sent me home again.” “A parlous case, methinks!” said Sir Pertinax, staring at the Dwarf's rueful visage. “Learned ye aught of the holy fathers?” “Aye, sir, they taught me truth to tell, To cipher and to read right well; They taught me Latin, sir, and Greek, Though even then in rhyme I'd speak.” “And thou canst read and write!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “So can not I!” Cried LOB: “What matter that? Heaven save the mark, Far better be a soldier than a clerk, Far rather had I be a fighter Than learned reader or a writer, Since they who'd read must mope in schools, And they that write be mostly fools. So 'stead of pen give me a sword, And set me where the battle's toward, Where blood—” But the ancient dame who had risen and approached silently, now very suddenly took Lobkyn by the ear again. “Talk not of blood and battles, naughty one!” she cried. “Think not to leave thy old grannam lone and lorn and helpless—nor this our fair maid. Shame on thee, Lob, O shame!” saying the which she cuffed him again and soundly. “Master,” he sighed, “thou seest I may not go, Since that my grand-dam will not have it so.” “Good mother, wise mother,” said the maid, viewing Sir Pertinax smilingly askance, “why doth poor soldier go bedight in fine linen 'neath rusty hauberk? Why doth poor soldier wear knightly chain about his neck and swear by knightly oath? Good mother, wise mother, rede me this.” The old woman viewed Pertinax with her bright, quick eyes, but, ere she could answer, he sheathed sword, drew ragged mantle about him, and made to go, but, turning to the maid, bent steel-clad head. “Most fair damosel,” said he gently, “evening cometh on, and now, since thou art no longer forlorn, I will away.” “Nay, first, I pray thee, what is thy name?” “Pertinax, madam.” “So then doth Melissa thank Pertinax. And now—out alas! Will Pertinax leave Melissa, having but found her?” Sir Pertinax looked up, looked down, fidgeted with his cloak, and knew not how to answer; wherefore she sighed again, though with eyes full merry 'neath drooping lashes and reached out to him her slender hand. “Aye me, and shall we meet no more, poor soldier?” she questioned softly. “This I know not,” he answered. “For thy brave rescue I do give thee my humble thanks, poor soldier.” “Thy rescue, child?” cried the old woman. “Alack and wert thou seen? Thy rescue, say'st thou?” “Indeed, good mother, from Sir Agramore's rough foresters. But for thee, thou needy soldier, my gratitude is thine henceforth. Had I aught else to give thee, that were thine also. Is there aught I may? Speak.” Now Sir Pertinax could not but heed all the rich, warm beauty of her—these eyes so sombrely sweet, her delicate nose, the temptation of her vivid lips—and so spake hot with impulse: “Aye, truly, sweet maid, truly I would have of thee a—” Her eyes grew bright with laughter, a dimple played wanton in her cheek, and Sir Pertinax was all suddenly abashed, faint-hearted and unsure; thus, looking down, he chanced to espy a strange jewel that hung tremulous upon her moving bosom: a crowned heart within a heart of crystal. “Well, thou staid and sorry soldier, what would'st have of me?” she questioned. “Verily,” he muttered, “I would have of thee yon trinket from thy bosom.” Now at his words she started, caught her breath and stared at him wide-eyed; but, seeing his abashment, laughed and loosed off the jewel with quick, small fingers. “Be it so!” said she. But hereupon the old woman reached out sudden hand. “Child!” she croaked, “Art mad? Mind ye not the prophecy? Beware the prophecy—beware! 'He that taketh Crystal Heart, Taketh all and every part!' Beware, I say, Oh, beware!” “Nay, good mother, have I not promised? And for this crystal it hath brought me nought but unease hitherto. Take it, soldier, and for the sake of this poor maid that giveth, break it not, dishonour it not, and give it to none but can define for thee the secret thereof—and so, poor, brave, fearful soldier—fare thee well!” Saying which this fair maiden turned, and clasping the Witch's bony arm about her slender loveliness, passed away into the denser wood with Lobkyn Lollo marching grimly behind, his mighty club across his shoulder. Long stood Sir Pertinax, staring down at the strange jewel in his hand yet seeing it not, for, lost in his dreams, he beheld again two eyes, dusky-lashed and softly bright, a slender hand, a shapelyfoot, while in his ears was again the soft murmur of a maid's voice, a trill of girlish laughter. So lost in meditation was he that becoming aware of a shadow athwart the level sunset-glory, he started, glanced up and into the face of a horseman who had ridden up unheard upon the velvet ling; and this man was tall and armed at points like a knight; the vizor of his plumed casque was lifted, and Sir Pertinax saw a ruddy face, keen-eyed, hawk-nosed, thin-lipped. “Fellow,” questioned the haughty knight, “what hold ye there?” “Fellow,” quoth Sir Pertinax, haughty and gruff also, “'t is no matter to thee!” And speaking, he buttoned the jewel into the wallet at his belt. “Fool!” exclaimed the Knight, staring in amaze, “wilt dare name me 'fellow'? Tell me, didst see three foresters hereabout?” “Poltroon, I did.” “Knave, wilt defy me?” “Rogue, I do!” “Slave, what did these foresters?” “Villain, they ran away!” “Ha, varlet! and wherefore?” “Caitiff, I drubbed them shrewdly.” “Dared ye withstand them, dog?” “Minion, I did.” “Saw ye not the badge they bore?” demanded the fierce stranger-knight. “'T was the like of that upon thy shield!” nodded Sir Pertinax grimly. “Know ye who and what I am, dunghill rogue?” “No, dog's-breakfast—nor care!” growled Sir Pertinax, whereat the stranger-knight grew sudden red and clenched mailed fist. “Know then, thou kennel-scourer, that I am Sir Agramore of Biename, Lord of Swanscote and Hoccom, Lord Seneschal of Tissingors and the March.” “Ha!” quoth Sir Pertinax, scowling. “So do I know thee for a very rogue ingrain and villain manifest.” “How!” roared Sir Agramore. “This to my face, thou vile creeper of ditches, thou unsavoury tavern-haunter—this in my teeth!” “Heartily, heartily!” nodded Sir Pertinax. “And may it choke thee for the knavish carcass thou art.” At this, and very suddenly, the Knight loosed mace from saddle-bow, and therewith smote Sir Pertinax on rusty bascinet, and tumbled him backward among the bracken. Which done, Sir Agramore laughed full loud and, spurring his charger, galloped furiously away. And after some while Sir Pertinax arose, albeit unsteadily, but finding his legs weak, sat him down again; thereafter with fumbling hands he did off dinted bascinet and viewed it thoughtfully, felt his head tenderly and, crawling to the stream, bathed it solicitously; then, being greatly heartened, he arose and drawing sword, set it upright in the ling and, kneeling, clasped his hands and spake as follows: “Here and now, upon my good cross-hilt I swear I will with joy and zeal unremitting, seek me out one Sir Agramore of Biename. Then will I incontinent with any, all, or whatsoever weapon he chooseth fall upon him and, for this felon stroke, for his ungentle dealing with the maid, I will forthwith gore, rend, tear, pierce, batter, bruise and otherwise use the body of the said Sir Agramore until, growing aweary of its vile tenement, his viler soul shall flee hence to consume evermore with such unholy knaves as he. And this is the oath of me, Sir Pertinax, “Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling, Bracton and Deepdene, to the which oath may the Saints bend gracious ear, in especial Our Holy Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood—Amen!” Having registered the which most solemn oath, Sir Pertinax arose, sheathed his sword, and strode blithely towards the fair and prosperous town of Canalise. But, being come within the gate, he was aware of much riot and confusion in the square and streets beyond, and hasting forward, beheld a wild concourse, a pushing, jostling throng of people making great clamour and outcry, above which hubbub ever and anon rose such shouts, as: “Murderer! Thief! Away with him! Death to him!” By dint of sharp elbow and brawny shoulder our good knight forced himself a way until—surrounded by men-at-arms, his limbs fast bound, his motley torn and bloody, his battered fool's-cap all awry—he beheld Duke Jocelyn haled and dragged along by fierce hands. For a moment Sir Pertinax stood dumb with horror and amaze, then, roaring, clapped hand to sword. Now, hearing this fierce and well-known battle shout, Duke Jocelyn turned and, beholding the Knight, shook bloody head in warning and slowly closed one bright, blue eye; and so, while Sir Pertinax stood rigid and dumb, was dragged away and lost in the fierce, jostling throng. My daughter GILLIAN propoundeth: GILL: Father, when you began this Geste, I thought It was a poem of a sort. MYSELF: A sort, Miss Pert! A sort, indeed? GILL: Of course—the sort folks love to read. But in the last part we have heard Of poetry there's scarce a word. MYSELF: My dear, if you the early Geste-books read, You'll find that, oft as not, indeed, The wearied Gestours, when by rhyming stumped, Into plain prose quite often jumped. GILL: But, father, dear, the last part seems to me All prose—as prosy as can be— MYSELF: Ha, prosy, miss! How, do you then suggest Our Geste for you lacks interest? GILL: Not for a moment, father, though Sir Pertinax was much too slow. When fair Melissa “laughing stood,” He should have kissed—you know he should—Because, of course, she wished him to. MYSELF: Hum! Girl, I wonder if that's true? GILL: O father, yes! Of course I'm right, And you're as slow as your slow knight. Were you as slow when you were young? MYSELF: Hush, madam! Hold that saucy tongue. You may be sure, in my young days, I was most dutiful always. Grown up, I was, it seems to me, No slower than I ought to be. And now, miss, since you pine for verse, Rhyme with my prose I'll intersperse; And, like a doting father, I To hold your interest will try.
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