Into the wood wandered the much-confused knight, recognizing, step by step, the path of the night before. The turf hut was before him—the door was open—and in the doorway sat the maiden herself, spinning, the distaff by her side, the spindle dancing on the ground, and the pilgrim’s hat no longer hiding her beauteous brow and wealth of dark braided hair. But, intolerable sight, seven or eight of last night’s loungers were dispersed hither and thither in the bushes, gazing with all their eyes, endeavouring to attract her attention; some by conversations with one another; one richly-dressed Gascon squire, of the train of Edward’s ally, the Count de Béarn, by singing a Provençal love ditty; while a merchant of Bristol set up a counter attempt with a long doleful English ballad. All the time the fair spinster sat in the doorway, with the utmost gravity, twisting her thread and twirling her spindle; but it might be observed that she had so placed herself as to have full command of the door, and to be able to shut herself in whenever she chose. No one had yet ventured to accost her. There was something in her air that rendered it almost impossible for any one to force himself upon her, and a sort of fear mingled with the impression she made. However, the young knight, although a bashful man by nature, had one advantage in his court breeding, and another in the acquaintance he had made last night. He walked straight up, and doffing his velvet cap, began, “Greet you well, fair Queen. I could not but take your challenge to see whether your power lasted when the dew was off.” The damsel rose with due courtesy as he approached, but ere she had attempted an answer, nay, even before the words were out of his mouth, the Gascon was shouting in French that this was no fair play, he had stolen a march; and the merchant had sprung forward saying, “Girl, beware, court gallants mean not well by country wenches.” “Thou liest in thy throat,” burst forth the knight. “Discourteous lubber, to call such a queen of beauty a country wench!” “Listen to me, girl.” “Lady, hear me.” “Hearken not to the popinjay foreigner.” These, and many more tumultuary exclamations, threats, and entreaties, crowded on one another, and the various speakers were laying hand on staff or sword, and glaring angrily on one another, when the word “Peace,” in the maiden’s clear silvery notes, sounded among them. They all turned as she stood in the doorway, drawn up to her full height. “Peace,” she said; “I can have no brawling here! My father was grievously sick yesterday, and is still ill at ease. One by one speak your business, and begone. You first, Sir,” to the Gascon, she said in French. “Ah! fair Lady, what business could be mine, save to tell you how lovely you are?” “You have said,” she answered, without a blush, waving him aside. “Now you, Sir,” to the tuneful merchant of Bristol. “I told you, Madam, he meant not well. Those aliens never do.”