“What dost thou know of the Queen of the Dew-drops, my Lady Malapert?” said King Edward, marking the red flush that mounted to the very brow of the downright young knight.
“Oh, I know that she is at the well every morning, and is as lovely as the dawn! Ay, and vanishes so soon as the sun is up; but not ere she has bewitched every knight of them all! And did not my Lord of Dunster hold the field in her honour against all comers? No wonder she appears to him.—Oh! tell us, Sir John! what like was she?”
“Hush, Joan,” said Queen Eleanor, bending forward, “no infanta in my time ever said so much in a breath.”
“No, Lady-mother; because you had to speak whole mouthfuls of grave Castillian words. Now, good English can be run off in a breath. Reyna del Rocio—that’s more majestic, but not so like fairyland as Queen of the Dew-drops!”
Princess Joan’s mouth was effectually stopped this time.
The adventure of the evening had led to the discovery of the hut of the Queen of the Dew-drops. The young knight had as usual been betimes at the well, but the maiden did not appear there. Then he questioned the cripple—who by day was an absolute helpless cripple—but the man utterly denied all knowledge of any such circumstance. He, why, poor wretch that he was, he never hobbled further than the shed close behind the well; he would give the world if he could get as far as the wood—he knew nothing about ladies or pilgrims—such a leg as his was enough to think about. And the display to which he forthwith treated the Knight of Dunster was highly convincing as to his incapacity.
Into the wood wandered the much-confused knight, recognizing, step by step, the path of the night before. The turf hut was before him—the door was open—and in the doorway sat the maiden herself, spinning, the distaff by her side, the spindle dancing on the ground, and the pilgrim’s hat no longer hiding her beauteous brow and wealth of dark braided hair. But, intolerable sight, seven or eight of last night’s loungers were dispersed hither and thither in the bushes, gazing with all their eyes, endeavouring to attract her attention; some by conversations with one another; one richly-dressed Gascon squire, of the train of Edward’s ally, the Count de Béarn, by singing a Provençal love ditty; while a merchant of Bristol set up a counter attempt with a long doleful English ballad. All the time the fair spinster sat in the doorway, with the utmost gravity, twisting her thread and twirling her spindle; but it might be observed that she had so placed herself as to have full command of the door, and to be able to shut herself in whenever she chose.
No one had yet ventured to accost her. There was something in her air that rendered it almost impossible for any one to force himself upon her, and a sort of fear mingled with the impression she made. However, the young knight, although a bashful man by nature, had one advantage in his court breeding, and another in the acquaintance he had made last night. He walked straight up, and doffing his velvet cap, began, “Greet you well, fair Queen. I could not but take your challenge to see whether your power lasted when the dew was off.”
The damsel rose with due courtesy as he approached, but ere she had attempted an answer, nay, even before the words were out of his mouth, the Gascon was shouting in French that this was no fair play, he had stolen a march; and the merchant had sprung forward saying, “Girl, beware, court gallants mean not well by country wenches.”
“Thou liest in thy throat,” burst forth the knight. “Discourteous lubber, to call such a queen of beauty a country wench!”