“Where is the hardship? I have lain among them all my life. Look at me! I am fourscore, and never had a headache in all my born days--all along of lying among the kye. Bless your silly head, kine's breath is ten times sweeter to drink nor Christians'. You try it!” and he slammed the bedroom door. “Denys, where are you?” whined Gerard. “Here, on her other side.” “What are you doing?” “I know not; but as near as I can guess, I think I must be going to sleep. What are you at? “I am saying my prayers.” “Forget me not in them!” “Is it likely? Denys, I shall soon have done: do not go to sleep, I want to talk. “Despatch then! for I feel--augh like floating-in the sky on a warm cloud.” “Denys!” “Augh! eh! hallo! is it time to get up?” “Alack, no. There, I hurried my orisons to talk; and look at you, going to sleep! We shall be starved before morning, having no coverlets.” “Well, you know what to do.” “Not I, in sooth.” “Cuddle the cow.” “Thank you.” “Burrow in the straw, then. You must be very new to the world, to grumble at this. How would you bear to lie on the field of battle on a frosty night, as I did t'other day, stark naked, with nothing to keep me warm but the carcass of a fellow I had been and helped kill?” “Horrible! horrible! Tell me all about it! Oh, but this is sweet.” “Well, we had a little battle in Brabant, and won a little victory, but it cost us dear; several arbalestriers turned their toes up, and I among them.” “Killed, Denys? come now!” “Dead as mutton. Stuck full of pike-holes till the blood ran out of me, like the good wine of Macon from the trodden grapes. It is right bounteous in me to pour the tale in minstrel phrase, for--augh--I am sleepy. Augh--now where was I?” “Left dead on the field of battle, bleeding like a pig; that is to say, like grapes, or something; go on, prithee go on, 'tis a sin to sleep in the midst of a good story.” “Granted. Well, some of those vagabonds, that strip the dead soldier on the field of glory, came and took every rag off me; they wrought me no further ill, because there was no need.” “No; you were dead.” “C'est convenu. This must have been at sundown; and with the night came a shrewd frost that barkened the blood on my wounds, and stopped all the rivulets that were running from my heart, and about midnight I awoke as from a trance.' “And thought you were in heaven?” asked Gerard eagerly, being a youth inoculated with monkish tales.