"To be sure."
"Then you are my knight. Master Lanyan is not and cannot be my knight. I choose so freely. Be upright, noble, and good."
Is it any wonder that the Knight of St. George departed with light footsteps. He was but a lad merging into manhood. Love was strong within him and flourished in keeping with the vigour of his youth. He knew not that she cared for him. Sometimes he thought so. He even dared to hope so when the doubts did not becloud his vision. It was something, though, to be her chosen knight. He knew by her last words that he was a closer friend at least than Lanyan. The thought lightened his spirits.
The Christmas players were the first on the way to the village. There was a chatter among them, some extolling the squire's generosity, others—the ability of the droll. Ande was silent. He was busy with his thoughts.
"Ah! The squire's maid gave 'ee as hard a drubbing as thee gave me. Edent it so?" said Tom Puckinharn, and he gave Ande a nudge in the side, as he whispered this in his ear.
"Ah! Get along, Tom, do!" replied Ande.
Tom was the only one who noticed the tête-â-tête of St. George and Sabra. Being a loyal friend of Ande, he prudently kept his own counsel. The remoteness of their situation, the voice and sound of the harp, the intense interest of the guests in the harper's entertainment, precluded any from hearing the conversation of that period.
Ande's dreams that night were very much confused. Now he was with King Arthur at Lyonnese; now against the dragon or the Turk; then on horse-back riding through the roaring waves of ocean, bearing in front of him the form of the fair Sabra, who appeared wonderfully like the squire's daughter. Then casting his eyes behind, he caught a view of the dragon, beating and lashing the waves into foam, in his rage, and somehow the dragon's head was that of Master Lanyan.