"Nay, lad, nay," said the other hastily, "give me the open country
and the greenwood, and leave to sing or be silent. Still, the King
is a good master, and lets me roam as I list if I will but come
back; 'tis ill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe in my cage
and follow the Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in on us
again."

He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower pace
as the minstrel sang. Hilarius' eyes filled with tears, for he was
still heart-sore, and Martin's voice rose and fell like the wind in
the tossing tree-tops which had beckoned him over the Monastery
wall. The song itself was sad--of a lover torn from his mistress
and borne away captive to alien service. When it was ended they
took a brisker pace in silence; then, after a while, Hilarius said
timidly:-

"Did'st thou sing of thyself, good Martin?"

"Ay, lad, and of my mistress." He stopped suddenly, louted low to
the sky, and with comprehensive gesture took in the countryside.
"A fair mistress, lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. A
man suns himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night
she is cold, chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smiles
and tears, then with boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelter
from her buffets. She gives all and yet nothing; she trails the
very traces of her hair across a man's face only to elude him. She
holds him fast, for she is mother of all his children; yet he must
seek as though he knew her not, or she flouts him."