"Art a fool, Roger—aye, a very fool, and talk arrant folly—"
"Yet, master, here is folly shall be thy joy and her joy and—"
"Enough, Roger! Hast forgot the oath I sware? And the ways of woman be crooked ways. And woman's love a light matter. Talk we of women no more."
"How!" quoth Roger, staring, "speak we no more of—Her?"
"No more!"
"Forsooth, so be it, master, then will we talk of Sir Fidelis his love—"
"Nor of Sir Fidelis."
"Ha!" growled Roger, scratching his head, "must we go mumchance then, master?"
"There be other matters for talk."
"Aye—there's witchcraft, master. For mark me, when thou wert sick and nigh to God and the holy saints, the evil spell could not come nigh thee, and thou didst yearn and cry continually for nought but—Her. But now—now that thou'rt hale and strong again—"