The little lad eyed him, and questioned with a child's simplicity, "What art thou, then?" The youth looked onward to the Great Hill. "I know not, yet," he said. So for a little space he sat, forgetful of his questioner, until the child came close and sat beside him, laying one hand upon his arm and looking up to his face thoughtfully. "Thou long brown man, it may be thou 'rt a poet," he said at last. "It may well be," the dreamer acquiesced, and never turned his eyes from the green hill. "In London, at the court of the king, there be poets," the child continued; "but thou art of quite other fashion. Who is thy lady-love?" "Saint Truth," the brown boy answered gravely. "Saint--Truth!" repeated the child; "and is she dead, then?" "Nay, I trow not; God forbid!" "I marvel that thy lady chide thee not for thy mean apparel. In London is not a friar plays his wanton lute beneath a chamber window but he goeth better clad than thou." "Hark you, young master, I follow not the friars!" the dreamer cried with a stern lip. "And for my lady, she careth for naught but that my coat be honestly come by. So far as I may discover, she hath not her abode in the king's palace." "Forsooth, a strange lady!" said the child; and then, leaning his head against that other's shoulder, "Poet, tell me a tale." "I pipe not for lordings, little master," the youth returned, anger yet burning in his eyes. "Nay, then, I 'm no lord," laughed the child; "my father is a vintner in London. He hath got me in Prince Lionel's household by favour of the king; for that the king loveth his merchants of the city; and well he may, my father saith. There be others, lordings, among the children of the household; but I am none. I am a plain man like to thee, poet." The dreamer shook his head with a mournful smile. "Not so close to the soil, master merchant, not so close to the soil. I smell o' the furrow." "Nay, I 'm no merchant, neither," the lad protested. "Hark in thine ear, thou long brown stranger,--and I 'll call thee brother! My lady saith I 'll be a poet. She 's a most wise and lovely lady. Come,--tell me a tale!" "I am no troubadour," sighed the brown youth; "I know one tale only, and that is over long for a summer day." But the child was angered; his eyes flashed, and he clenched one hand and flung it backward, menacing:-- "I 'll believe thou mockest me," he cried. "Lying tongue! No poet thou, but a lazy hind." Then the gray, smouldering eyes of the dreamer shot fire, and a long brown arm jerked the lad to his knees. "I tell no lies. My lady is Saint Truth," the dreamer said. "Poet or no poet, as thou wilt, I 'll not gainsay thee. But a truthteller ever." A little lamb that strayed near by looked up with startled face, and scampered down the hill, crying "Ba-a-a!" The huntsman's note came winding up from the green depths. The child arose and dusted his knees.