“'T was on a May morning, on the Ma'vern Hills,” whispered the singer, “on the Ma'vern Hills;” and he fell in a dream.
The Great Hill of the Malverns stood over against the dreamer, a bare, up-climbing majesty, a vasty cone, making its goal in long green strides. Below, a wrinkle hinted a pass, and on the high flat saddle between the Great Hill and the Small, the grass was trodden, albeit not worn away. A bell called softly from a valley hidden eastward; and up from the southwest, slantwise across a corner of the hill, a child came running into the dream, a gay lad in scarlet hosen and a green short coat, and shoes of fine leather. His eyes made a wonderment in his face, but his lips curled a smile at the wonder. A dark elf-lock danced on his forehead.
The dreamer moved no whit, but waited, level-eyed.
“What be these tricks?” cried the child in a voice betwixt a laugh and a gasp. “I saw thee from yonder hill, and thou wert distant a day's journey. Then the bell rang, and lo! I am here before the clapper 's swung to rest.”
He in the russet smiled, but answered nothing.
The little lad looked down and studied him. “I 've missed my way,” he said.
“What is thy way?”
“'T was the way o' the hunt, but marry, now 't is the way of a good dinner,—and that 's a short road to the Priory. I am of Prince Lionel's train.”
“Ay,” returned the other, as who should say, “No need to tell me that;” and he added presently, “The hunt is below in the King's Forest; how art thou strayed? Thou 'rt midway the top o' the Great Hill.”
The child laughed, but, though his eyes were merry, yet were they shy, and the red mounted to his brow. He came a pace nearer.