"Yes, I have a feeling that you are. I want to hear you."
"Well, anything to pass the time. I might try 'Turkish Lady.'"
He began a many-stanzaed ballad, having a robust tune with many queer, long-drawn notes—the story of an English lord who was captured by a Turkish one, and thrown into his deepest dungeon, to be released later by the Turk's lovely daughter, amid mutual vows of love and constancy. After "seven long years have rolled around," the Turkish lady "bundles up her finest clothing," and journeys to England, in search of her lagging lover. Arriving at his castle, and "tingling at the ring," she is informed by "the proud young porter" that his master is just bringing a new bride in. She gives him a message to take to his lord; and when he reports it, with the additional information,—
"There's the fairest lady standing yonder
That my two eyes did ever see;
She wears gold rings on every finger,
And on one finger she has three.
There's enough gay gold about her middle
To buy half of Northumberlee,"—
the master, recognizing his old true love from the description, under the stress of returning passion breaks his sword in pieces three, packs off the new bride with little ceremony, and celebrates another wedding with the Turkish lady, to the general admiration and glee.
Isabel listened, inexpressibly charmed. "Do you realize," she inquired, "that that ballad goes way back to the time of the Crusades, and is probably seven or eight hundred years old? Where did you learn it?"
"I never heared nothing of hits history," he said, "but hit's what I call a right ballat—hit turns out proper. My granny, she teached hit to me; she used to foller singing the night through on song-ballats."
"Oh, will you take me to see her?" asked Isabel.
"Sartain."
"And your voice is good, too; you'll be a great help to me in the singing classes."