I said I would do my best to play the noble. But
what should I call him? He bade me call him nought but Servant. That
would mortify him most, he wist. We rode on a long way in silence; for
I was meditating this strange chance, that from a beggar's servant had
made me master to a count, and also cudgelling my brains how best I
might play the master, without being run through the body all at one
time like his cousin. For I mistrusted sore my spark's humility; your
German nobles being, to my knowledge, proud as Lucifer, and choleric
as fire. As for the servants, they did slily grin to one another to see
their master so humbled."

"What is that?"

A lump, as of lead, had just bounced against the door, and the latch was
fumbled with unsuccessfully. Another bounce, and the door swung inwards
with Giles arrayed in cloth of gold sticking to it like a wasp. He
landed on the floor, and was embraced; but on learning what was going
on, trumpeted that he would much liever hear of Gerard than gossip.

Sybrandt pointed to a diminutive chair.

Giles showed his sense of this civility by tearing the said Sybrandt
out of a very big one, and there ensconced himself gorgeous and glowing.
Sybrandt had to wedge himself into the one, which was too small for the
magnificent dwarf's soul, and Margaret resumed. But as this part of the
letter was occupied with notices of places, all which my reader probably
knows, and if not, can find handled at large in a dozen well-known
books, from Munster to Murray, I skip the topography, and hasten to that
part where it occurred to him to throw his letter into a journal. The
personal narrative that intervened may be thus condensed.

He spoke but little at first to his new companions, but listened to pick
up their characters. Neither his noble Servant nor his servants could
read or write; and as he often made entries in his tablets, he impressed
them with some awe. One of his entries was, "Le peu que sont les
hommes." For he found the surly innkeepers licked the very ground
before him now; nor did a soul suspect the hosier's son in the count's
feathers, nor the count in the minstrel's weeds.

This seems to have surprised him; for he enlarged on it with the naivete
and pomposity of youth. At one place, being humbly requested to present
the inn with his armorial bearings, he consented loftily; but painted
them himself, to mine host's wonder, who thought he lowered himself
by handling brush. The true count