“Light of love; it has a wondrous fair sound,” said Hilarius with a smile.
The maid looked at him speechless.
“Go home, Boy,” she said at last emphatically.
Just then a lad, a tumbler by his dress, pushed a way through the undergrowth, and stood grinning at the pair.
“So, Gia!” he said. “We must make haste; the others wait.”
“’Tis my brother,” said the dancer, “and”—pointing to the bag slung across the youth’s shoulder—“I trust he hath a fine fat hen from thy Monastery for our meal.”
Hilarius broke into a cold sweat.
The Convent’s hens! The Saints preserve us! Was nothing sacred, and were the Ten Commandments written solely for use in the Monasteries?
“’Tis stealing,” he said feebly.
“’Tis stealing,” the dancer mocked. “Hast thou another sermon ready, Sir Preacher?”