“Saint Truth,” the brown boy answered gravely.
“Saint—Truth!” repeated the child; “and is she dead, then?”
“Nay, I trow not; God forbid!”
“I marvel that thy lady chide thee not for thy mean apparel. In London is not a friar plays his wanton lute beneath a chamber window but he goeth better clad than thou.”
“Hark you, young master, I follow not the friars!” the dreamer cried with a stern lip. “And for my lady, she careth for naught but that my coat be honestly come by. So far as I may discover, she hath not her abode in the king's palace.”
“Forsooth, a strange lady!” said the child; and then, leaning his head against that other's shoulder, “Poet, tell me a tale.”
“I pipe not for lordings, little master,” the youth returned, anger yet burning in his eyes.
“Nay, then, I 'm no lord,” laughed the child; “my father is a vintner in London. He hath got me in Prince Lionel's household by favour of the king; for that the king loveth his merchants of the city; and well he may, my father saith. There be others, lordings, among the children of the household; but I am none. I am a plain man like to thee, poet.”
The dreamer shook his head with a mournful smile. “Not so close to the soil, master merchant, not so close to the soil. I smell o' the furrow.”
“Nay, I 'm no merchant, neither,” the lad protested. “Hark in thine ear, thou long brown stranger,—and I 'll call thee brother! My lady saith I 'll be a poet. She 's a most wise and lovely lady. Come,—tell me a tale!”