"Where is Mistress Avenon? O, fair Idonia, hasten hither, if you be within this fated mansion!"
"She is in the kitchen cooking a fowl," said I, pretty short, for this adjuration of his mightily displeased me.
"Cooking!—she!" returned the poet, with a despairing gesture. "Her lily hands! O monstrous indignity, and cruel office of a cook!"
I had thought he would fall headlong down the ladder, so distractedly did he behave himself, and called upon him sharply to tell me wherein lay this danger to Idonia he affected to fear.
"I stand alone against a host," said he with a flourish, "but Love maketh a man sufficient, and will fortify these arms."
"Enough," I shouted, "or I will assuredly call in question the authorship of a certain rascal poem you wot of."
"It is mine own," he screamed, and danced upon the sill for very rage. "There is no resemblance betwixt my verses and that preposterous fellow's—whose name even I know not. I vow there hath been nought, since Catullus, writ with so infinite and original an invention as my Hymn to the Spring," and off he went with his "Fresh Spring, the lovely herald of Great Love," with so great an eagerness of delight in the poor cuckoo-chick words, as I could not but pity him.
By this time our loud and contrary arguments had been overheard, and ere he had done Idonia came running forth from the kitchen, her sleeves above the elbow, and her dress all tucked up; while a little after, Skene called over the stair-rail to inquire out the cause of this disturbance.
"'Tis Mr. Plat, the celebrated poet," I replied, "that says there is a danger threatening this house, though of what nature I cannot learn."
Suddenly recalled by my protest, the poet clapped his hand to his forehead and cried out: