“If you want to see the world--this is your place. . . . There's not much that goes along this road that doesn't come to Gaston of Abbeville some day. . . . Damaskeening? You'll see as much damaskeened work here as you could in Damascus. . . . Look here, my lad, if you're in want of work, stay with me till snowfall and see the pilgrims, and the knights, and the bowmen, and the free companions with their plunder, go by to the sea. Then ye may go on to Damascus if you're still set on the place, with some hope of not losing your way.” This seemed to Dickon a rather good idea. In his brief sojourn in Abbeville he had come to see the difficulty of travel in a land where no one understands your questions. It was as Gaston said. People of all races, kinds and conditions traveled the highway that ran past the armorers' shop. Once Guy Bouverel, whom Dickon had met once or twice at Wilfrid's house, gave him surprised and pleased greeting. A little later came Padraig, the Irish clerk, on his way to Rouen. Padraig somehow learned about Audrey in the few hours he spent there. “I thought 'twas more than hammer and tongs that took you out of Sussex,” he said. “I wish ye luck, but there's no knowing, Dickon, what they will do when they are seized with this pilgrimage fever.” “'Tis not the lass, 'tis her lady,” Dickon muttered, his head in his hands. “And the worst o't is that I can do nothing but think of her away there among the paynim. A fine lady's train has no call for such as me.” Padraig's brows lifted in humorous but sympathetic understanding. “I see,” he said. “I'll tell the maid, if I see her, that she'll find none so well worth her while among Saracens--or pilgrims either.” There was a great jousting at Crecy a little later, and Gaston went there to deal with certain knights and princes among the tilters, and left the shop in Dickon's charge. Restless with the magic of a summer night after he had barred the little place, he wandered away over the white ancient road. He lay down on a grassy bank, where boughs laden with drifting blossoms hung over an orchard wall, and looked up at the stars, thinking. “'Tes like what they tell of the Saracens' magic,” he said half aloud, “this that makes a man do what's clean against his own will.” “Hammer not cold iron, friend,” said a deep voice near by. “Saracen magic is naught save the wisdom of necessity, and that we all learn in our time.” Dickon looked up at a tall man in a traveler's cloak, who had come through the gate in the wall just then. The upper part of the face was hidden by the hood, but the mouth wore a quiet smile. The voice was that of a knight, and Dickon got to his feet and bowed. “I know not what you were thinking of when you spoke of Saracen magic,” the stranger went on, “but I would I could find an armorer for a bit of work on my dagger. 'Tis a Damascus blade, but there's no gramarye in it, I promise you.”