After this, early rising became the fashion of Holy-well. All the gentlemen got up early to look at the Queen of the Dew-drops; and all the ladies got up early to see that the gentlemen did not get into mischief; and the maiden’s devotions became far from solitary; but she moved on, with a sort of superb unconcern, never lifting the dark fringes that veiled the eyes so steadily fixed on the beads that dropped through her fingers, until, as she finished, she raised up her head with a straightforward fearless look at the way she was going, so completely self-possessed that no one ventured to accost her, and to follow her at less than such a respectful distance, that she was always lost sight of in the wood.
At last, late one evening, there was a sudden start of exultant satisfaction among some of the young men who were lounging on the green; for the most part not the nobles of the court, but certain young merchants of London and Bristol, who had followed the course of pilgrimage by the magnetism of fashionable resort. The Queen of the Dew-drops was seen, carrying a pitcher! Up started four or five gallants, offering assistance, and standing round her, wrangling with one another, and besetting her steps.
“Let me pass, gentles,” she said with dignity, “I am carrying wine in haste to my father.”
“Nay, fair one, you pass not our bounds without toll,” said the portliest of the set.
“Hush, rudesby; fair dames in disguise must be treated after other sort.”
Every variety of half-insulting compliment was pouring upon her; but she, with head erect, and steady foot, still quietly moved on, taking no notice, till a hand was laid on her pitcher.
“Let go!” then she said in no terrified voice. “Let go, Sir, or I can summon help.”
And as if to realize her words, the intrusive hand was thrust aside by a powerful arm, and a voice exclaimed—
“This lady is to pass free, Sir! None of your insolence!”
“A court-gallant,” passed round the hostile bourgeoise; “none of your court airs, Sir.”