The stars were paling out, and by this time Florimel was very tired, so that when he saw a hay-stack in a field he quickly sought it, and burrowing from sight down into the sweet-smelling mass was soon asleep.
The sun was up when he awoke refreshed. He heard the cooling trickle of a brook hard by, and drank thirstily, and laved his face and hands. Some distance off upon a dew-spangled hillside thin smoke curled lazily up from the thatched roof of a farmer’s cottage. Florimel who felt the qualms of hunger drew nigh to it resolved to ask for food.
As he approached the cottage a dog stretched out in the doorway to enjoy the first genial rays of the sun jumped up and started to bark, but almost instantly his barks ceased, and he wagged his tail instead with friendly violence.
A stout, middle-aged woman with a kerchief on her head came to the open door and eyed him questioningly.
“Good mother,” he said, with a winning smile, “may I trespass upon your hospitality? I would fain break my fast, and this coin will pay my way.”
“Food have we a-plenty, and to spare,” said the kind-hearted woman, “so that you are welcome to it. But who are you, and whence came you? You do not speak like a peasant’s child.”
“Nay, I have some knowledge of fair speech,” said Florimel. “Yet do I count myself one of the people. And I fare from the city in quest of adventure. See, I have brought this bow and quiver of arrows with me!”
“Then most surely you will find it,” said the dame, “for we live almost on the edge of the kingdom, and beyond that line of deep woods there is a strange country with adventure enough, I warrant you. But come with me, and sit you at the board. My good man has gone to loose the sheep from the fold, and will be back very soon.”
So Florimel followed his hostess into the plain kitchen, and took his place at a bare wooden table while she busied herself in the preparation of the meal. And, as he sat there, and she was occupied with her task, there rose from outside a sudden hub-bub, made up of the gallop of many horses’ hoofs, the clank and rattle of swords and uniforms, and the jargon of excited human voices.