“ I tell you, my fair lord,” she was saying, “that it is no fit training for a demoiselle: hawks and hounds, rotes and citoles singing a French rondel, or reading the Gestes de Doon de Mayence, as I found her yesternight, pretending sleep, the artful, with the corner of the scroll thrusting forth from under her pillow. Lent her by Father Christopher of the priory, forsooth—that is ever her answer. How shall all this help her when she has castle of her own to keep, with a hundred mouths all agape for beef and beer?”
“ True, my sweet bird, true,” answered the knight, picking a comfit from his gold drageoir. “The maid is like the young filly, which kicks heels and plunges for very l**t of life. Give her time, dame, give her time.”
“ Well, I know that my father would have given me, not
