"Because I was so minded!" says she, mighty serene and regarding me with her calm, level gaze. "Never scowl, Martin, though indeed 'twas goodly knife with handle all gold-work." At this I scowled the more and she must needs laugh, calling me Black Bartlemy, whereon I turned my back on her and she fell a-singing to herself.
"Think you these arrows are poisoned also?" says she as I rose. At this, I emptied them from the quiver, and though their iron barbs looked innocent enough, I held each in the fire until I judged I had rendered them harmless if poisoned they were indeed.
And now, though sore tempted to try my skill with this good bow, I followed her down to the river-bank to try my hand at pottery, though taking good care to carry my bow with me.
Being come to the river I laid aside bow and quiver, and cutting divers lumps of clay (the which seemed very proper to my purpose) I fell to kneading these lumps until I had wrought them to a plastic consistency, and so (keeping my hands continually moistened) I began to mould and shape a pot to her directions. And now, since I was about it, I determined to have as many as need be and of different sizes. My first was a great ill-looking thing, and my second little better, but as I progressed I grew more skilful so that after some while I had six pots of varying size and shape, and each with handles; and, though ill things to look at, my lady found them all she desired.
"Surely they are very clumsy?" says I, viewing them doubtfully.
"But very strong, Martin!"
"And very ponderous!"
"But they have handles, Martin!"
"And very ill-shaped!"
"'Tis no matter so long as they will hold water, Martin."