“‘You may bring me my best suit. The day is pleasant. I will dress becomingly.’
“‘Now you are yourself again. I must hasten to inform the Court of your recovery. I must fly to her Grace the Duchess, and say, “The Duke, the Duke is himself again!”’
“‘The Duke! I tell you I am Christopher Sly,—old Sly’s son, of Burton Heath,—by birth a peddler and by trade a tinker. Duke Sly! No. Duke Christopher! or, better, Duke Christophero! Marry, friend! wouldn’t that sound well? It may be I am a duke, for all. Go ask Marian Hacket, the buxom inn-keeper of Wincot, if she don’t know Christopher Sly,—Duke Christophero; and if she say I do not owe her fourteen pence for small ale, then call me the biggest liar and knave in Christendom!’
“The servants presently brought the poor tinker a silver basin, ‘full of rose-water, and bestrewed with flowers.’ Then they brought him a suit of crimson, trimmed with lace and starred. The bewildered fellow stared awhile in silence; then he slowly put on the gorgeous apparel.
“The tinker next was conducted to a magnificent banqueting-hall, where was spread a rich feast. The tables smoked with venison and sparkled with wine. He was led to a high seat beneath a canopy of silk and gold, the Duchess following, and seating herself by his side. Knights and ladies filled the tables, and the tinker began to feast and to sip wine like a duke indeed.
“‘I wish’—said he, suddenly.
“‘What is your wish?’ asked the Duchess.
“‘I wish that old Stephen Sly was here, and John Naps and Peter Turf, and my wife Joan, and Marian Hacket: wouldn’t it be jolly?’
“Christopher had never smacked his lips over such wine before, and he drank so deeply that his ideas became mixed again. The feast ended. The ladies sung and the musicians played, but Christopher continued drinking as long as he could hold a beaker. He began to be sleepy, and presently tumbled from his high seat beneath the silken canopy to the floor,
‘Where he sleeping did snore,
Being seven times drunker than ever before.’