“Alas,” said she, “then ’tis worse than madness, ’tis mystery. Thou dost ill to hide thyself from me in this wise, Smetse, for I have always lived in thy house, faithful to thee only, cherishing thine honour, husbanding thy wealth, neither lending nor borrowing, holding my tongue in the company of other wives, considering thy secrets as mine own and never breathing a word of them to any one.”
“I know it,” said Smetse, “thou hast been a good and true wife.”
“Then why,” said she, “knowing this, hast thou not more faith in me? Ah, my man, it hurts me; tell me the secret, I shall know how to keep it, I promise thee.”
“Wife,” said he, “knowing nothing thou wilt be able to hold thy tongue the more easily.”
“Smetse,” said she, “wilt thou verily tell me nothing?”
“I cannot,” said he.
“Alas,” said she.
By and by the workmen came back, and Smetse gave each of them a good royal to get themselves drink.
Whereat they were all so merry, and felt themselves so rich, that for three days none of them put his nose into the smithy, save one old man who was too withered, stiff, short of breath, and unsteady on his legs to go swimming with the others in the Lys, and afterwards drying in the sun among the tall grasses, dancing in the meadows to the music of rebecks, bagpipes, and cymbals, and at night in the tavern emptying pots and draining glasses.