Joan was not in the kitchen when I arrived, nor about the buildings; nor yet could I spy her anywhere moving on the hills. So, after calling to her once or twice, I stabled the mare, and set off up the tor side to seek her. Now I must tell you that since the day of my coming I had made many attempts to find the place where Joan had then hidden me, and always fruitlessly: though I knew well whereabouts it must be. Indeed, I had thought at first I had only to walk straight to the hole: yet found after repeated trials but solid earth and boulders for my pains. But to-day as I climb’d past the spot, something very bright flashed in my eyes and dazzled me, and rubbing them and looking, I saw a great hole in the hill—facing to the sou’-west—in the very place I had search’d for it; and out of this a beam of light glancing. Creeping near on tiptoe, I found one huge block of granite that before had seemed bedded, among a dozen fellow-boulders, against the turf—the base resting on another well-nigh as big—was now rolled back; having been fixed to work smoothly on a pivot, yet so like nature that no eye, but by chance, could detect it. Now, who in the beginning designed this hiding place I leave you to consider; and whether it was the Jews or Phoenicians—nations, I am told, that once work’d the hills around for tin. But inside ’twas curiously paved and lined with slabs of granite, the specks of ore in which, I noted, were the points of light that had once puzzled me. And here was Joan’s bower, and Joan herself inside it. She was sitting with her back to me, in her left hand holding up the mirror, that caught the rays of the now sinking sun (and thus had dazzled me), while with her right she tried to twist into some form of knot her tresses—black, and coarse as a horse’s mane—that already she had roughly braided. A pail of water stood beside her; and around lay scatter’d a score or more of long thorns, cut to the shape of hair pins. ’Tis probable that after a minute’s watching I let some laughter escape me. At any rate Joan turned, spied me, and scrambled up, with an angry red on her cheek. Then I saw that her bodice was neater lac’d than usual, and a bow of yellow ribbon (fish’d up heaven knows whence) stuck in the bosom. But the strangest thing was to note the effect of this new tidiness upon her: for she took a step forward as if to cuff me by the ear (as, a day agone, she would have done), and then stopp’d, very shy and hesitating. “Why, Joan,” said I, “don’t be anger’d. It suits you choicely—it does indeed.” “Art scoffing, I doubt.” She stood looking heavily and askance at me. “On my faith, no: and what a rare tiring-bower the Jew’s Kitchen makes! Come, Joan, be debonair and talk to me, for I am out of luck to-day.” “Forgit it, then” (and she pointed to the sun), “whiles yet some o’t is left. Tell me a tale, an thou’rt minded.” “Of what?” “O’ the bloodiest battle thou’st ever heard tell on.”