ond blow, his judgment did; and he began to ask himself what was
the use going further? He sat down on the hard road, and ran his nails
into his hair, and tried to think for the best; a task all the more
difficult that a strange drowsiness was stealing over him. Rome he could
never reach without money. Denys had said, "Go to Strasbourg, and down
the Rhine home." He would obey Denys. But how to get to Strasbourg
without money?

Then suddenly seemed to ring in his ears--

"Gyf the world prove harsh and cold,
Come back to the hedde of gold."

"And if I do I must go as her servant; I who am Margaret's. I am
a-weary, a-weary. I will sleep, and dream all is as it was. Ah me, how
happy were we an hour agone, we little knew how happy. There is a house:
the owner well-to-do. What if I told him my wrong, and prayed his aid
to retrieve my purse, and so to Rhine? Fool! is he not a man, like the
rest? He would scorn me and trample me lower. Denys cursed the race of
men. That will I never; but oh, I begin to loathe and dread them. Nay,
here will I lie till sunset: then darkling creep into this rich man's
barn, and take by stealth a draught of milk or a handful o' grain, to
keep body and soul together. God, who hath seen the rich rob me, will
peradventure forgive me. They say 'tis ill sleeping on the snow. Death
steals on such sleepers with muffled feet and honey breath. But what can
I? I am a-weary, a-weary. Shall this be the wood where lie the wolves
yon old man spoke of? I must e'en trust them: they are not men; and I am
so a-weary."

He crawled to the roadside, and stretched out his limbs on the snow,
with a deep sigh.

"Ah, tear not thine hair so! teareth my heart to see thee."

"Margaret. Never see me more. Poor Margaret."

And the too tender heart was still.

And the constant lover, and friend of antique mould, lay silent on the
snow; in peril from the weather, in peril from wild beasts, in peril
from hunger, friendless and penniless in a strange land, and not halfway
to Rome.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Rude travel is enticing to us English. And so are its records; even
though the adventurer be no pilgrim of love. And antique friendship has
at least the interest of a fossil. Still, as the true centre of this
story is in Holland, it is full time to return thither, and to those
ordinary personages and incidents whereof life has been mainly composed
in all ages.

Jorian Ketel came to Peter's house to claim Margar