Younker had started in again for the walk home, and Pitou, with a hand on one basket, trudged on beside it. As dreamy as her neighbor, Catherine let the bridle drop with no fear about being run away with. There were no monsters on the highway and Younker bore no resemblance to the fabulous hippogriffs.
The walker stopped mechanically when the animal did, which was at the farm.
"Hello, is this you, Pitou?" challenged a strong-shouldered man, proudly stationed before a drinking pool where his horse was swilling.
"It is me, Master Billet."
"He's had another mishap," said the maid, jumping off the horse without any heed as to showing her ankles. "His aunt has sent him packing."
"What has he done to worry the old bigot this time?" queried the farmer.
"It appears that I am not good enough in Greek," said the scholar, who was lying, for it was Latin he was a bungler at.
"What do you want to be good at Greek for?" asked the broad-shouldered man.
"To explain Theocritus and read the Iliad. These are useful when you want to be a priest."
"Trash!" said Billet. "Do you need Greek and Latin? do I know my own language—can I read or write? but this does not prevent me plowing, sowing and reaping."