The soldier extended his hand.
"This is kind," he said, "and be assured, Master Spikeman, that I will not soon conceive suspicion of thee again." These women be notional things, he murmured to himself.
Spikeman took the hand.
"Now this is like thyself, Philip," he said—"a brave soldier—true as a Toledo blade—one who loves his friend, and hates his enemy, although this latter part should not be so. Thou art journeying, I see, to the knight's place. Mayst thou find in him a patron, but it will do no harm to say—be on thy guard; one old friend is better than a dozen new."
He turned away, and the soldier, as he looked after him, said—
"There is truth in thy words, but thou art ignorant that the knight and I were friends long before I knew thee."
CHAPTER VI.
Nature I court in her sequestered haunts,
By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove or cell,
Where the poised lark his evening ditty chaunts,