“Good, good! Another! Give us another.”
“What is spring? The painter of the earth. What is the year? The world’s chariot. What is the sun? Quotha! Doltish are ye if none can answer.”
“The splendor of the world, the beauty of heaven, the grace of nature, the honor of day, the distributer of the hours,” spoke up Wulfhere. “Now thou, whom they have called Witlaf, answer this: What is the sea?”
Witlaf thought for a moment ere he replied, “The path of audacity, the boundary of the earth, the receptacle of the rivers, the fountain of showers.”
“Right!” exclaimed the old bard, his spirits high, his blood coursing warmly through his veins, for it was scenes of this kind that he loved. “Right, sir bard! Now prithee read me this riddle. An unknown person, without tongue or voice spoke to me, who never existed before, nor has existed since, nor ever will be again, and whom I neither heard nor knew.”
But Witlaf shook his head.
“Thou wilt have to unravel it thyself,” he said, “I know not that.”
“It is a dream,” answered Wulfhere, and again the rafters shook with applause.
“Now, wanderer, read this for me if thou canst. It is a wonder. I saw a man standing; a dead man walking who never existed,” quoth Witlaf.
“It is an image in the water,” replied Wulfhere quickly.