Master Ambrose gave a sort of low growl of rage, but again Master Nathaniel shot him a warning look, and said in a voice of polite interest, "Indeed! Indeed! And where, may I ask, does the ... er ... fruit come from?" She laughed merrily, "Why, the gentlemen bring it! All the pretty gentlemen, dressed in green, with their knots of ribands, crowding down in the sunrise from their ships with the scarlet sails to suck the golden apricocks, when all in Lud are fast asleep! And then the cock says Cockadoodledoo! Cockadoodledooooo!" and her voice trailed off, far-away and lonely, suggesting, somehow, the first glimmer of dawn on ghostly hayricks. "And I'll tell you something, Master Nat Cock o' the Roost," she went on, smiling mysteriously, and coming close up to him, "you'll soon be dead!" Then she stepped back, smiling and nodding encouragingly, as if to say, "There's a pretty present I've given you! Take care of it." "And as for Mother Tibbs," she went on triumphantly, "she'll soon be a fine lady, like the wives of the Senators, dancing all night under the moon! The gentlemen have promised." Master Ambrose gave a snort of impatience, but Master Nathaniel said with a good-humoured laugh, "So that's how you think the wives of the Senators spend their time, eh? I'm afraid they've other things to do. And as to yourself, aren't you getting too old for dancing?" A slight shadow passed across her clear eyes. Then she tossed her head with the noble gesture of a wild creature, and cried, "No! No! As long as my heart dances my feet will too. And nobody will grow old when the Duke comes back." But Master Ambrose could contain himself no longer. He knew only too well Nat's love of listening to long rambling talk--especially when there happened to be some serious business on hand. "Come, come," he cried in a stern voice, "in spite of being crack-brained, my good woman, you may soon find yourself dancing to another tune. Unless you tell us in double quick time who exactly these gentlemen are, and who it was that put you on guard here, and who brings that filthy fruit, and who takes it away, we will ... why, we will cut the fiddle strings that you dance to!" This threat was a subconscious echo of the last words he had heard spoken by Moonlove. Its effect was instantaneous. "Cut the fiddle strings! Cut the fiddle strings!" she wailed; adding coaxingly, "No, no, pretty master, you would never do that! Would he now?" and she turned appealingly to Master Nathaniel. "It would be like taking away the poor man's strawberries. The Senator has peaches and roasted swans and peacock's hearts, and a fine coach to drive in, and a feather bed to lie late in of a morning. And the poor man has black bread and baked haws, and work ... but in the summer he has strawberries and tunes to dance to. No, no, you would never cut the fiddle strings!"