"Old Geraldus and I would have had a tree," he sighed at last. "Each year since we came out from Augsburg we made us one, and sang the dear old German songs, and gave each other gifts. And this year we were both to give this goodly 'Troilus' to Sir John--and lo! they are both murdered, dead, and I am following them, close at their heels--and 'Troilus' will come to naught. And never had more cunning and shapely work been done, not even in Augsburg!" "Is it far--that 'Owg'--what name do you call it?" asked Dickon. "As far as London town?" The lad smiled faintly from where he lay. "It is across the sea, and many days' journey still." "And does the king come there oftener than into Shropshire?" "Dull boy! There your king durst never come. It is not his country. There is an emperor, and then a Wittelsbach Duke, but even these may not come into Augsburg if the burghers say them nay. The tongue is different there from yours, and so, glory be to the saints, are the manners, too. There learning flourishes, and men are gentle, and books like poor Troilus yonder are monthly made by dozens." "Wherefore came you hither, then?" queried Dickon, with rude islander logic. "It was the madness in my master's head. He deemed that here he should be welcome, bringing a new craft to make knowledge common. But these be beasts here in Shropshire, not men. They desire not books, but only blood and battle and red meat." "Men come by knowledge to their hurt," said Dickon. "There was a clerk turned thief in Egswith with Sir Watty, and he was skilled to fashion marks on paper so wise men might know their meaning--and him they hanged at Rednal for a rogue four winters syne." "For that he was a robber, and no true clerk," retorted Andreas. Dickon looked into the fire for answer, and then at the black, starless sky overhead. He rose, and busied himself for a time in gathering fresh fuel, and then in roughly wattling some side shelter at the back of the bed of leaves. Some vagrant flakes of snow sifted through the branches above, and he reflected upon the chances of making a roof on the morrow. Or doubtless it would be better to go farther back, and build more securely there. He put the question to Andreas by way of talk, restoring the fire meanwhile. The German boy smiled in wonder. "Why, on the morrow, if strength comes back to me, hie we to the good white friars. They bade you come, and me, too!" Dickon's face clouded over. "Nay, I'm for the greenwood," he said stubbornly. "I will wear no man's collar more, nor sleep under roof. To be free, here in the open, it maketh a new man of me. And so, an you leave me, here I abide alone, or in these parts."