"That would be a pity," said Martin. "Can nothing save you?"
"Nothing but the keys to her prison, and they are in the keeping of them that will not give them up."
"I remember," said Martin. "Six milkmaids."
"With hearts of flint!" cried Robin.
"Sparks may be struck from flint," said Martin, in his inconsequential way. "But tell me, if Gillian's prison were indeed unlocked, would all be well with you for ever?"
"Oh," said Robin Rue, "if her prison were unlocked and the prisoner in these arms, this wheat should be flour for a wedding-cake."
"It is the best of all cakes," said Martin Pippin, "and the grain that is destined thereto must not rot in the husk."
With these words he strolled out of the cornfield, gathered a harebell, rang it so loudly in the ear of a passing rabbit that it is said never to have stopped running till it found itself in France, and went up the road humming and thrumming his lute.
On the road he met a Gypsy.
"Maids," said Joscelyn, "somebody is at the gate."