"You wasn't never there!" cried Storm.
She rose from her tuft, to dip him a low curtsy. Then she began to speak in the manner of the Devon peasantry.
"What! Haven't ye heeard as King Powhatan's darter, the Blessed Pocahontas, be coom a-land i' Devon? And they du tell as thicky ma-aid be marriet with Master John Rolfe, the young Planter, aie, an' has a son by him aie. Tammas his na-a-me is, and she be coom a' the way-ay frae Virginia, thicky Lady Rebecca Rolfe so they du sa-ay, which be her christened na-ame."
Eavesdropping fairies, pretending not to hear, were gathered by hundreds now to nurse a drooping rosebud.
"H'm!" Storm grunted. "You've always got some new mare's nest to sit on."
Yet he was puzzled to find himself arrayed, as Master John Rolfe might have been, coming ashore from Virginia, his sea boots changed to tan riding-boots, his trousers to trunk hose, his jersey to a brown doublet, a stiff, wide linen collar spreading above his shoulders, and on his head a green top hat with a feather.
"Mare's nest?" said Pocahontas. "Pillion, you mean, on the crupper, i' faith, be-hind my little master John Rolfe in his brown doublet, and his green top-hat, his scabbard bruising my knees, yes, all the way to Town."
Of course it was only a dream, but still it was queer that he seemed to be astride a sweaty gray horse, with a perfect little witch of a woman perched up behind him, poking shy fun as they rode.
"Now they do call me the Lady Rebecca Rolfe—as one might say our Lady the Queen. Yiss. All the simple people at their doors prick-eared and open-mouthed as we ride by, to see the Redskin lady coom a' the way from Jamestown at the new Plantations. And the gentries come of an evening to our tavern, where we shall lie the night, with civil welcome, so please you, to the Lady Rebecca Rolfe who is a Princess Royal."
Thousands of fairies formed the audience now, and as their numbers gave them confidence, sat unabashed to listen.