“No! that is all a silly old song,” explained Gerard. “'Tis a byword our elders keep repeating, out of custom: it is not true.”
“How can you know? You are but a child,” said Margaret, with pensive dignity.
“Why, only look round! And then thought I had lost you for ever; and you are by my side; and now the minstrels are going to play again. Sin and misery? Stuff and nonsense!”
The lutes burst out. The courtyard rang again with their delicate harmony.
“What do you admire most of all these beautiful things, Gerard?”
“You know my name? How is that?”
“White magic. I am a—witch.”
“Angels are never witches. But I can't think how you—”
“Foolish boy! was it not cried at the gate loud enough to deave one?”
“So it was. Where is my head? What do I admire most? If you will sit a little more that way, I'll tell you.”