'You are an ill horseman, Saint. I am near jogged from my seat.'
'Put thine arms about me.'
'Nay, I am not holy enough.'
She was silent again, for five minutes.
'Your lute bangs my nose.'
He shifted it. She held her peace during two minutes.
'Who taught you to play it, Saint?'
'It was one of the fathers. What would it profit you to know which?'
'Nothing at all. I trow he was a good master to that and your gospel.'
'My gospel?'