"No; only of myself."

"Ah! you mean to--force a promise from me--here?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it is night, and you are solitary; I would not have you

fear me again. But I shall come to you, one day, a day when the sun

is in the sky, and friends are within call. I shall come and ask you

then."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I shall wait."

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"Until I wed another?"

"Until you change your mind."

"I think I shall--refuse you."

"Indeed, I fear it is very likely."

"Why?"

"Because of my unworthiness; and, therefore, I would not have you

kneel while I stand."

"And the grass is very damp," she sighed.

So Barnabas stepped forward with hand outstretched to aid her, but,

as he did so, the wandering singer was between them, looking from

one to the other with his keen, bright eyes.

"Stay!" said he. "The Wise Ones have told me that she who kneels

before you now, coveted for her beauty, besought for her money,

shall kneel thus in the time to come; and one--even I, poor

Billy--shall stand betwixt you and join your hands thus, and bid you

go forth trusting in each other's love and strength, even as poor

Billy does now. And, mayhap, in that hour you shall heed the voice,

for time rings many changes; the proud are brought low, the humble

exalted. Hush! the Wise Ones grow impatient for my song; I hear them

calling from the trees, and must begone. But hearkee! they have told

me your name, Barnabas? yes, yes; Barn--, Barnabas; for the other,

no matter--mum for that! Barnabas, aha! that minds me--at Barnaby

Bright we shall meet again, all three of us, under an orbed moon, at

Barnaby Bright:--"

"Oh, Barnaby Bright, Barnaby Bright,

The sun's awake, and shines all night!"

"Ay, ay, 't is the night o' the fairies--when spirits pervade the air.

Then will I tell you other truths; but now--They call me. She is

fair, and passing fair, and by her beauty, suffering shall come upon

thee; but 'tis by suffering that men are made, and because of pride,

shame shall come on her; but by shame cometh humility. Farewell; I

must begone--farewell till Barnaby Bright. We are to meet again in

London town, I think--yes, yes--in London. Oho! oysters! oysters, sir?"

"Many a knight and lady gay

My oysters fine would try,

They are the finest oysters

That ever you could buy!

Oysters! Oysters."

And so he bowed, turned, and danced away into the shadows, and above

the hush of the leaves rose the silvery jingle of his many buttons,

that sank to a chime, to a murmur, and was gone. And now my lady

sighed and rose to her feet, and looking at Barnabas, sighed

again--though indeed a very soft, little sigh this time. As for

Barnabas, he yet stood wondering, and looking after the strange

creature, and pondering his wild words. Thus my lady, unobserved,

viewed him at her leisure; noted the dark, close-curled hair, the

full, well-opened, brilliant eye, the dominating jaw, the sensitive

nostrils, the tender curve of the firm, strong mouth. And she had

called him "a ploughman--a runaway footman," and had even--she could

see the mark upon his cheek--how red it glowed! Did it hurt much,

she wondered?




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