The least of little folk, or soon or late, May by such hidden terrors rule the great. The least of little folk, unseen, unknown, May find that saving strength is theirs alone. XII THE LOZENGES OF GIOVANNI HOW A MILANESE BAKER-BOY AND A PADUAN PHYSICIAN KEPT POISON OUT OF THE KING'S DISH Ranulph the troubadour was riding along a lonely moorland trail, singing softly to himself. In so poor a neighborhood there was little fear of robbers, and the Barbary horse which he had under him could outrun most other horses. The light-stepping hoofs made little noise upon the springy turf, and as the song ended he heard some one sobbing behind a group of stunted bushes. He halted and listened. The sound ceased. "Ho there, little one--what is the trouble?" He spoke in Saxon, the language of the country folk, but at the first words a figure sprang up and dodged from shrub to rock like a scared leveret. He called again quickly in French: "Hola! little friend, wait a moment!" There was no answer. Somehow he did not like to leave the mystery unsolved. There must be a child in trouble, but what child could there be in this wild place, and neither Norman nor Saxon? It was not far enough to the West to be Welsh borderland, and it was too far south to be near either Scotland or the Danelaw. He spoke in Provençal, and the fugitive halted at the sound of the soft southern o's and a's; then he spoke again in the Lombard dialect of Milan. A boy ventured out of the thicket and stood staring at him. Ranulph flung himself off his horse and held out his hand. "Come here, little comrade, and tell me who you are, and why you are all alone here." The boy's dark eyes grew wider in his elvish face and his hands opened and shut nervously as he answered in Italian: "I am no one, and I have no home. Take me not to prison." "There is no thought of a prison, my lad, but I cannot wait here. Come, ride with me, and I will take you to a kind woman who will take care of you."