a-top whereby I might secure them to my line; and though they had no
barbs I thought they might catch any fish were I quick enough.

"How shall you do for a line, Martin?"

"I shall take the gut of one of our goats and worsted unravelled from
my stocking."

"Will worsted be strong enough?"

"I shall make it fourfold."

"Nay, I will plait it into a line for you!"

"Good!" quoth I. And whipping off one of my stockings I unravelled
therefrom sufficient of the worsted.

"But what shall you do for stockings?" says she, while this was a-doing.

"I will make me leggings of goat's-skin." So she took the worsted and
now, sitting in a patch of radiant moonlight, fell to work, she weaving
our fish-line with fingers very quick and dexterous, and I carving away
at the pin for her hair.

"How old are you, Martin?" says she suddenly.

"Twenty-seven."

"And I shall be twenty-six to-morrow."

"I judged you older."

"Do I look it, Martin?"

"Yes--no, no!"

"Meaning what, Martin!"

"You do seem older, being no silly maid but of a constant mind, and one
to endure hardship. Also you are very brave in peril, very courageous
and high-hearted. Moreover you are wise."

"Do you think me all this?" says she softly. "And wherefore?"

"I have never heard you complain yet--save of me, and I have never seen
you afraid. Moreover you caught a goat and killed it!"

"You are like to make me vain of my so many virtues, Martin!" laughs
she; yet her laugh was very soft and her eyes kind when she looked at
me.

"This hairpin shall be my birthday gift to you," says I.

"And surely none like to it in the whole world, Martin!"

After this we worked a great while, speaking no word; but presently she
shows me my fish-line very neatly plaited and a good five feet long,
the which did please me mightily, and so I told her.

"Heigho!" says she, leaning back against the rock, "Our days grow ever
more busy!"

"And will do!" quoth I. "Here is strange, rude life for you, days of
hardship and labour unceasing. Your hands shall grow all hard and
rough and yourself sick with longing to be hence--"

"Alas, poor me!" she sighed.

"Why, 'twill be no wonder if you grieve for England and ease," says I,
"'twill be but natural."

"O very, Martin!"

"For here are you," I went on, beginning to scowl up at the waning
moon, "here are you bred up to soft and silken comfort, very dainty and
delicate, and belike with lovers a-plenty, courtly