She lay deep-plunged in slumber, her face concealed by the hood of this same grey cloak and naught to see of her save one hand, a slim, shapely hand, very white and delicate; observing which hand, its pink, soft palm, its long, taper fingers and rosy, polished nails, Sir John’s eyes grew suddenly keen, his lips grim as, lying down again, he stared on the brightening dawn; slowly his grim look vanished and, smiling enigmatically, he fell asleep again. And presently up came the sun to transform a myriad dewdrops into so many scintillating gems and make a glory of the world; to rouse the birds and fill them with the gladness of a new day; to kiss the slumberous eyes of her who stirred sighfully in the comfort of her grey cloak, and waking to a glory of sunshine and carolling birds, sat up suddenly, peering eager-eyed at him who lay beside her very fast asleep and with a faint, enigmatic smile upon his lips. CHAPTER VII WHICH INTRODUCES MY LORD SAYLE AND THE CLASH OF STEEL Sir John rubbed the sleep from his eyes to behold his companion approaching, evidently fresh from her morning ablutions; moreover, her sprigged petticoat, if a little rumpled, looked surprisingly trim, her square-toed, flat-heeled shoes were innocent of dust and she had even contrived to comb and dress her hair—black, glossy hair, he noticed, that fell in wanton curls on either white temple. And, seeing her so neat and trig from top to toe, he immediately became supremely conscious of his own rumpled garments, his unshaven chin and the haystalks entwined in the tangled ringlets of his peruke. None the less, he rose and bowed with his usual grace, giving her a cheery “Good morning.” “’S heart, child!” he exclaimed, “you walk proud as Dian’s self or lady o’ high degree, God save your ladyship!” And he bowed again with an exaggerated flourish, at which she frowned and answered sullenly: “You’m asleep and dreaming, I think!” “Aye, belike I am, wench,” he answered gaily. “I dream you sweet, gentle and great o’ soul—and dreams ever go by contrary, for thy looks are sour, thy speech ungracious and thy soul—ha, thy soul, child!” “What of’t?” “’Tis the unknown quantity! How, dost frown yet, my Rose? Is it for anger or hunger? “O Rose of love, O fragrant rose Thy visage sheweth me The source of all thy present woes Is that thy stomach empty goes, So filled it soon shall be. —bethink thee, Rose, the joys in store—ham, beef, beer ... base material things to appal the soul and yet—how comfortable, how irresistible to your human maid and man! So ha’ patience, sweet wench, ha’ patience till I have laved me, combed me and found us an inn. Meantime sit ye and list to the birds, commune you with Nature whiles I go wash in the brook yonder.”