“It may be, child,” answered Wulfhere. “They are guests, likely. Methought they were gentles. But didst thou see, Egwina, that the lady hath sent her own cup? Fortune hath favored us in sooth.” The girl looked at the cup as he wished, but ever and anon stole glances toward the dais where were the youth and the maiden. At this moment from one of the settles where sat the minstrels, a voice exclaimed: “Tell me, ye wise ones, what is winter?” “Tell us, Witlaf,” shouted the reeve. “Expect not wisdom at a feast.” “It is the banishment of summer,” answered the minstrel. “Good, good! Another! Give us another.” “What is spring? The painter of the earth. What is the year? The world’s chariot. What is the sun? Quotha! Doltish are ye if none can answer.” “The splendor of the world, the beauty of heaven, the grace of nature, the honor of day, the distributer of the hours,” spoke up Wulfhere. “Now thou, whom they have called Witlaf, answer this: What is the sea?” Witlaf thought for a moment ere he replied, “The path of audacity, the boundary of the earth, the receptacle of the rivers, the fountain of showers.” “Right!” exclaimed the old bard, his spirits high, his blood coursing warmly through his veins, for it was scenes of this kind that he loved. “Right, sir bard! Now prithee read me this riddle. An unknown person, without tongue or voice spoke to me, who never existed before, nor has existed since, nor ever will be again, and whom I neither heard nor knew.” But Witlaf shook his head. “Thou wilt have to unravel it thyself,” he said, “I know not that.” “It is a dream,” answered Wulfhere, and again the rafters shook with applause. “Now, wanderer, read this for me if thou canst. It is a wonder. I saw a man standing; a dead man walking who never existed,” quoth Witlaf. “It is an image in the water,” replied Wulfhere quickly. “He hath thee, Witlaf,” came from the board in a merry shout. “Thou hast met thy match.” “Nay; here is another,” cried Witlaf on his mettle. “I wot that there be few men that can unravel this: I saw the dead produce the living, and by the living the dead were consumed.” Wulfhere smiled as sagely and answered: “From the friction of trees fire was produced, which consumed.” So, fast and furious grew the fun, every minstrel or bard contributing his quota to the mirth; Witlaf and Wulfhere leading, each striving to outdo the other. The feast thickened, and mead, pigment, and morat circled round the board, and the tongue of the Saxon was unloosened. Then did the harp pass from hand to hand and each sang. Even the nobles at the king’s board lifted up their voices in song. Again the cup-bearer approached the place where the minstrels sat. “The lady Elswitha wishes to know if thy daughter sings not alone?” said he, addressing the bard. “Hath she not some simple lay that will charm the ear?”