Here she must needs lavish all manner of praises on my skill until I came nigh cutting myself.
"How many will you make me, Martin?"
"As many as you will."
"Three should suffice."
"Why, you have a prodigious lot of hair."
"Do you think so, Martin?" says she, glancing down at the two great braids that fell over her bosom well-nigh to her waist. "'Twas well enough in England, but here 'tis greatly in my way and hampers me in my work. I had thought of cutting it off."
"Then don't!"
"Why not, Martin?"
"Well," says I, glancing at the nearest braid that showed coppery lights where the setting sun caught it. "Well, because—" and finding nought else to say I fell to my carving again and away she goes to her cooking.
"Martin," says she at last, "what do you know of Master Penfeather? Where did you fall in with him, and why is his life so threatened?"