The Lady Zenambria asked, “Knoweth any for certain what fate befell Jalcanaius and Helteranius and Zeldornius and their armies?” “Heard I not,” said Prezmyra, “that they were led by Will-o’-the-Wisps to the regions Hyperborean, and there made kings?” “Told thee by the madge-howlet, I fear me, sister,” said La Fireez. “Whenas I fared through Impland the More, six years ago, there was many a wild tale told me hereof, but nought within credit.” Now was the chine served in amid shallots on a great dish of gold, borne by four serving men, so weighty was the dish and its burden. Some light there glowed in the dull eye of Corsus to see it come, and Corund rose up with brimming goblet, and the Witches cried, “The song of the chine, O Corund!” Great as a neat stood Corund in his russet velvet kirtle, girt about with a broad belt of crocodile hide edged with gold. From his shoulders hung a cloak of wolf’s skin with the hair inside, the outside tanned and diapered with purple silk. Daylight was nigh gone, and through a haze of savours rising from the feast the flamboys shone on his bald head set about with thick grizzled curls, and on his keen gray eyes, and his long and bushy beard. He cried, “Give me a rouse, my lords! and if any fail to bear me out in the refrain, I’ll ne’er love him more.” And he sang this song of the chine in a voice like the sounding of a gong; and all they roared in the refrain till the piled dishes on the service tables rang: Bring out the Old Chyne, the Cold Chyne to me, And how Ile charge him come and see, Brawn tusked, Brawn well sowst and fine, With a precious cup of Muscadine: _How shall I sing, how shall I look, In honour of the Master-Cook_? The Pig shall turn round and answer me, Canst thou spare me a shoulder? a wy, a wy. The Duck, Goose, and Capon, good fellows all three, Shall dance thee an antick, so shall the Turkey: But O! the Cold Chyne, the Cold Chyne for me: _How shall I sing, how shall I look, In honour of the Master-Cook_? With brewis Ile noynt thee from head to th’ heel, Shal make thee run nimbler than the new oyld wheel; With Pye-crust wee’l make thee The eighth wise man to be; But O! the Old Chyne, the Cold Chyne for me: _How shall I sing, how shall I look, In honour of the Master-Cook_? When the chine was carved and the cups replenished, the King issued command saying, “Call hither my dwarf, and let him act his antick gestures before us.” Therewith came the dwarf into the hall, mopping and mowing, clad in a sleeveless jerkin of striped yellow and red mockado. And his long and nerveless tail dragged on the floor behind him. “Somewhat fulsome is this dwarf,” said La Fireez.