"I tell you, my fair lord," she was saying, "that it is no fit
training for a demoiselle: hawks and hounds, rotes and citoles
singing a French rondel, or reading the Gestes de Doon de
Mayence, as I found her yesternight, pretending sleep, the
artful, with the corner of the scroll thrusting forth from under
her pillow. Lent her by Father Christopher of the priory,
forsooth--that is ever her answer. How shall all this help her
when she has castle of her own to keep, with a hundred mouths all
agape for beef and beer?"
"True, my sweet bird, true," answered the knight, picking a
comfit from his gold drageoir. "The maid is like the young
filly, which kicks heels and plunges for very lust of life. Give
her time, dame, give her time."
"Well, I know that my father would have given me, not time, but a
good hazel-stick across my shoulders. Ma foi! I know not what
the world is coming to, when young maids may flout their elders.
I wonder that you do not correct her, my fair lord."
"Nay, my heart's comfort, I never raised hand to woman yet, and
it would be a passing strange thing if I began on my own flesh
and blood.
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