“There are many streets in the city, and on each they call me differently.”
The girl was still perplexed.
“Minstrels have patrons,” she said, directly, “who—”
“Nay, child, this soldier here is all the friend I have.”
Some one then threw aside the vine that draped the door. While the minstrel looked to see who the intruder was, his inquisitor gazed at the soldier, who, on his part, saw neither of them; he was making an obeisance so very low that his face and hand both touched the ground.
“Does the minstrel intend to sing, Yeteve?” asked Nenetzin, stepping into the light that flooded the walk.
The old man bent forward on his seat.
“Heaven’s best blessing on the child of the king! It should be a nobler hand than mine that strikes a string to one so beautiful.”
The comely princess replied, her face beaming with pleasure, “Verily, minstrel, much familiarity with song has given you courtly speech.”
“I have courtly friends, and only borrow their words. This place is fair, but to my dull fancy it seems that a maiden would prefer the great hall, unless she has a grief to indulge.”