All this I was to learn from a strange accident that befell me when at length I left loitering before Idonia's door, and skirted about the place in search of any index to the riddle she had read me. For I was persuaded that to reach the heart of the mystery, I must at all adventures gain access to the house itself; I being then quite ignorant of the dividing of it in the manner I have told. It was with an extraordinary delight, therefore, that I discovered the lane to the rearward of the house, and the low door. Somewhat to my surprise I found the door not made fast, and so at once entering by it, I began cautiously to ascend the rotten stair. But scarce had I gone half-way to the first stage, when I stumbled over the body of a man that lay stretched there in the dark, and was, I thought, dead. Howbeit, he was not, and when I had him down into the air, and had loosened his clothing, he opened his eyes. He stared upon me wildly. "How? You are not of the brotherhood?" he stammered. I said nothing in reply, but leaving him where he was, ran to a tavern hard by upon Tower Hill, called _The Tiger_, whence I returned presently with a flask of strong wine. The drinking of it revived him marvellously, so that he was soon able to support himself on his feet, although without strength to walk yet. I got him some meat, too, and bread, both of which he ate like a wolf rather than a man; so far had he gone in starvation. When he had done, he would have thanked me, but I interrupted him, asking in my turn who he was, and what trade he was of. He straightened his back at that, and looking me very proudly in the face replied: "My name is Andrew Plat, and by the grace of Heaven I am a lyrical poet." Upon the sudden I recalled Mr. Jordan. "So," I thought, "'tis the worthy that stole my lord Pembroke's buttery-beer." However, all I said was: "I think I have not read any of your writing, Mr. Plat." "'Tis very possible," said he, "for I write less than I think: and indeed publish less than I write." "And how standeth it with your fasting, Master Poet?" quoth I. "I feed my thoughts that way," he replied simply, "as 'twas in a fast I conceived my famous lines upon the Spring." I bade him drink another draught of the wine, having no interest to scrape acquaintance with his Muse; but he was not so easily to be put off. "It begins thus," said he, and tossing back his long and tawny hair from his eyes, lifted his right hand aloft and beat the air with his fingers as he proceeded-- "Fresh Spring, the lovely herald of great Love, On whose green tabard are the quarterings Of many flowers below and trees above In proper colours, as befits such things-- Go to my love----" "Hold, hold!" I cried, "methinks I have read something very similar to these lines of yours in another man's verses." He held his hand still suspended, though his eyes flashed in disdain of my commentary.