novelty, resistance; and ere they could recover and
make mincement of her, she put her pitcher quietly down, and threw her
coarse apron over her head, and stood there grieving, her short-lived
spirit oozing fast. "Hallo!" cried the soldier, "why, what is your ill?"
She made no reply. But a little girl, who had long secretly hated the
big ones, squeaked out, "They did flout her, they are aye flouting her;
she may not come nigh the fountain for fear o' them, and 'tis a black
shame."

"Who spoke to her! Not I for one."

"Nor I. I would not bemean myself so far."

The man laughed heartily at this display of dignity. "Come, wife," said
he, "never lower thy flag to such light skirmishers as these. Hast a
tongue i' thy head as well as they."

"Alack, good soldier, I was not bred to bandy foul terms."

"Well, but hast a better arm than these. Why not take 'em by twos across
thy knee, and skelp 'em till they cry Meculpee?"

"Nay, I would not hurt their bodies for all their cruel hearts."

"Then ye must e'en laugh at them, wife. What! a woman grown, and not
see why mesdames give tongue? You are a buxom wife; they are a bundle of
thread-papers. You are fair and fresh; they have all the Dutch rim under
their bright eyes, that comes of dwelling in eternal swamps. There lies
your crime. Come, gie me thy pitcher, and if they flout me, shalt see
me scrub 'em all wi' my beard till they squeak holy mother." The
pitcher was soon filled, and the soldier put it in Margaret's hand. She
murmured, "Thank you kindly, brave soldier."

He patted her on the shoulder. "Come, courage, brave wife; the divell
is dead!" She let the heavy pitcher fall on his foot directly. He cursed
horribly, and hopped in a circle, saying, "No, the Thief's alive and has
broken my great toe."

The apron came down, and there was a lovely face all flushed with'
emotion, and two beaming eyes in front of him, and two hands held out
clasped.

"Nay, nay, 'tis nought," said he good-humouredly, mistaking.

"Denys?"

"Well?--But--Hallo! How know you my name is--"

"Denys of Burgundy!"

"Why, ods bodikins! I know you not, and you know me."

"By Gerard's letter. Crossbow! beard! handsome! The divell is dead."

"Sword of Goliah! this must be she. Red hair, violet eyes, lovely face.
But I took ye for a married wife, seeing ye---"

"Tell me my name," said she quickly.

"Margaret Brandt."

"Gerard? Where is he? Is he in life? Is he well? Is he coming? Is he
co