A little later, upon awakening, she insisted upon being allowed to get down beside him and walk on slightly ahead of the caravan. At last her dream had come true. She was idling down le long trimard with Jean François, his Pierrett—a lady upon whom she laid no claim—Rogue, and Columbine. She picked flowers; teased Rogue by pokes and inoffensive jabs; tantalized the pedler by asking a thousand childish questions, which he answered with becoming patience; ate voraciously and often; ran and jumped the brooks and insisted upon wading until she was threatened; smiled upon the staring, open-mouthed rustics; insisted upon showing goods at places he wished to hurry by, and, for the sake of selling, making outlandish bargains; and ever and anon breaking into song. At least a half dozen times did she sing the pedler's favorite air:
"Will you buy any tape,
Or lace for your cape,
My dainty ducky, my dear-a?"
Once she caroled, much to Jean François' delight, an old song he had taught her as having been sung by the debonair Henry of Navarre. It especially pleased him because she sang in French:
"Morning bright,
Rise to sight,—
Glad am I thy face to see:
One I love,
All above,
Has ruddy cheek like thee.
"Fainter far
Roses are,
Though with morning dew-drops bright;
Ne'er was fur
Soft like her,
Milk itself is not so white.
"When she sings,
Soon she brings
Listeners out from every cot;
Pensive swains
Hush their strains,—
All their sorrows are forgot.
"She is fair
Past compare;
One small hand her waist can span.
Eyes of light—
Stars, though bright,
Match those eyes you never can.
"Hebe blest
Once the best
Food of gods before her placed:
When I sip
Her red lip,
I can still the nectar taste."
In the middle of the afternoon they rested for about two hours in a little glade just off the road. It was here, near a branch, that Nance, while wandering about, discovered a rather curious old arrow-head with which she immediately ran to Jean François.
"That, my dear," said he, "is an elf-arrow."