"Love!" she exclaimed, "so soon; you have seen me only once!"
"Yes," he nodded, "it is, therefore, to be expected that I shall worship you also—in due season."
Now Barnabas stood leaning upon his stick, a tall, impassive figure; his voice was low, yet it thrilled in her ears, and there was that in his steadfast eyes before which her own wavered and fell; yet, even so, from the shadow of her hood, she must needs question him further.
"Worship me? When?"
"When you are—my—wife."
Again she was silent, while one slender hand plucked nervously at the grass.
"Are you so sure of me?" she inquired at last.
"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."
"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?
"Mad of course—yes a madman, poor fellow!" said Barnabas, thoughtfully.
"And he said your name is Barnabas."
"Why, to be sure, so he did," said Barnabas, rubbing his chin as one at a loss, "which is very strange, for I never saw or heard of him before."
"So then, your name is—Barnabas?"
"Yes. Barnabas Bar—Beverley."
"Beverley?"
"Yes—Beverley. But we must go."
"First, tell me how you learned my name?"
