And he laid his hand upon the leathern thong that sustained the pitcher; but at that moment three or four heaps of rags, that had been lying under the trees by the woodland path, erected themselves, and one in especial, whom the young knight had observed as a frightful cripple seated by day near the well, now came forward brandishing his crutch in a formidable manner, and uttering a howl of defiance. But the lady silenced him at once—
“Peace, good Trig, nothing is amiss! It is only this gentleman’s courtesy. He hath done me good service on the green yonder!”
And as her strange body-guard retreated growling, she, perhaps to show her confidence, resigned her pitcher into the knight’s hand.
“So, fair Queen of the Dew-drops,” he said, half bewildered, “thou dost work miracles!”
“Ay, when the dew is on the grass, and the nightingale sings,” she returned gaily; “by day the enchantment is over.”
By this time they had reached a low turf hut; and the maiden, turning at the door, held out her hand, and said, “Thanks, fair Sir, I must enter my enchanted palace alone; but grammercy for thy kind service, and farewell.”
The maiden and the pitcher vanished. The knight watched the rude door in vain—he only saw a few streaks of light through the boards. Then he bethought him of questioning her guards, but when he reached their tree they were gone. It was fast growing dark, and he was one of the King’s personal attendants, and subject to the strict regulations of his household; so, dazed and bewildered as he was, he walked hastily back to the hospice, where the King and Queen lodged. Supper had already begun, and the glare of lights dazzled his eyes. In his bewilderment, he served the King with mustard instead of honey from the great silver ship full of condiments, in the centre of the table.
“How’s this, Sir John?” said the King, who always had a kindly corner in his heart for this young knight. “Are these the idle days of thy Crusade come again?”
“I could well-nigh think so!” half-whispered Sir John.
“He looks moonstruck!” cried that spoilt ten years old damsel, Joan of Acre, clasping her hands with mischievous fun. “Oh! has he seen the Queen of the Dew-drops?”