He rode absorbed in discontent. Finally he again took up speech with John Cobb. “It’s a dull life! I wish something would happen--anything!” “There be the miracles.” “I haven’t any hand in them. You can’t be interested unless you’re doing something yourself.--I’d rather be a robber than just trotting from shop and trotting back again.--Hist, John! What’s behind yon tree?” “Where?” “There! A big, black man! Two--four, five! Draw your weapon, man!” John struck hand to the dirk at his waist. His eyes enlarged, his lips clapped shut. Then, “They bain’t but little fir trees!--You’re grinning!--Your pranking and mystery-playing’ll break you one day!” “I wish it had been Robin Hood--” They rode through the wood. It was a bright morn after rain. The trees showered them with diamonds, the world smelled like a pomander box. When they were out from the trees and amid tilled land every blade of springing grain carried jewels. Far up in a light blue sky a lark was singing. “By’re lady!” said John Cobb. “If I were taken up by Somerville and went to sup with Morgen Fay, I’d not be saying life was dull!” “He nor no one else has ‘taken me up.’ His uncle married my father’s cousin. Bettany’s a name that has sounded well since long time. My father helped him, too, with monies--but that’s nothing either!--Somerville and I are friends.” “Like you and me?” “No!--His being ‘Sir Robert’ and older doesn’t make any difference.” He was superbly sure of that and rode with his blond head up like a youthful, adventurous king. “As for Morgen Fay, I’d think more of her if I hadn’t seen last Candlemas--you know whom!” “That’s Mistress Cecily. She’s a fair one! But I don’t believe she’s pricked your heart much either. You’re just for the New World and men and adventure. It would make me proud though to sup with Morgen Fay.” “Oh, you’ll never, my poor John! I tell you what she’s like. She’s like something you see in poetry. But Cecily walked in first, into my keep and hold. Besides, I wouldn’t interfere with Robert.” “Robert!” John Cobb could but admire, while Master Thomas Bettany tossed his clear whistle up to the lark singing. So many birds were singing! The two were now riding by the Wander, through Westforest land. Mounting a little hill they saw below them monastery walls and roofs, not a large place, set among trees by the water’s side. Some of the old forest held here.