“Sti Högh? Safe enough, I suppose. Why not?”
“Faith, I hope he won’t lose himself on the way, that’s all.”
“Lose himself?”
“Ay, among the German maidens—or the Dutch, for the matter of that. You know ’tis said of him his heart is made of such fiery stuff, it bursts into flame at the least flutter of a petticoat.”
“Who’s taken you to fools’ market with such fables?”
“Merciful! Did you never hear that? Your own brother-in-law? Who’d have thought that could be news to you! Why, I’d as lief have thought to tell you the week had seven days.”
“Come, come, what ails you to-day? You run on as if you’d had Spanish wine for breakfast.”
“One of us has, that’s plain. Pray have you never heard tell of Ermegaard Lynow?”
“Never.”
“Then ask Sti Högh if he should chance to know her. And name to him Jydte Krag and Christence Rud and Edele Hansdaughter and Lene Poppings if you like. He might happen to know some fables, as you call it, about them all.”