“Could I not tell you my name and lineage, in exchange for yours?” returned Roland.
“No!” answered the maiden, “for you know little of either.”
“How?” said the page, somewhat angrily.
“Wrath you not for the matter,” said the damsel; “I will show you in an instant that I know more of you than you do of yourself.”
“Indeed,” answered Graeme; “for whom then do you take me?”
“For the wild falcon,” answered she, “whom a dog brought in his mouth to a certain castle, when he was but an unfledged eyas—for the hawk whom men dare not fly, lest he should check at game, and pounce on carrion—whom folk must keep hooded till he has the proper light of his eyes, and can discover good from evil.”
“Well—be it so,” replied Roland Graeme; “I guess at a part of your parable, fair mistress mine—and perhaps I know as much of you as you do of me, and can well dispense with the information which you are so niggard in giving.”
“Prove that,” said the maiden, “and I will give you credit for more penetration than I judged you to be gifted withal.”
“It shall be proved instantly,” said Roland Graeme. “The first letter of your name is S, and the last N.”
“Admirable,” said his partner, “guess on.”