dly host; and so bankrupt am I, at this moment, of friends and
advice, that I will willingly make a counsellor of thee, and tell thee
the whole history, the rather that I have a favour to ask when my tale
is ended."

"Good Master Tressilian," said the landlord, "I am but a poor innkeeper,
little able to adjust or counsel such a guest as yourself. But as sure
as I have risen decently above the world, by giving good measure and
reasonable charges, I am an honest man; and as such, if I may not
be able to assist you, I am, at least, not capable to abuse your
confidence. Say away therefore, as confidently as if you spoke to your
father; and thus far at least be certain, that my curiosity--for I will
not deny that which belongs to my calling--is joined to a reasonable
degree of discretion."

"I doubt it not, mine host," answered Tressilian; and while his auditor
remained in anxious expectation, he meditated for an instant how he
should commence his narrative. "My tale," he at length said, "to be
quite intelligible, must begin at some distance back. You have heard of
the battle of Stoke, my good host, and perhaps of old Sir Roger Robsart,
who, in that battle, valiantly took part with Henry VII., the Queen's
grandfather, and routed the Earl of Lincoln, Lord Geraldin and his wild
Irish, and the Flemings whom the Duchess of Burgundy had sent over, in
the quarrel of Lambert Simnel?"

"I remember both one and the other," said Giles Gosling; "it is sung
of a dozen times a week on my ale-bench below. Sir Roger Robsart of
Devon--oh, ay, 'tis him of whom minstrels sing to this hour,--

'He was the flower of Stoke's red field,
When Martin Swart on ground lay slain;
In raging rout he never reel'd,
But like a rock did firm remain.'

[This verse, or something similar, occurs in a long ballad, or
poem, on Flodden Field, reprinted by the late Henry Weber.]

"Ay, and then there was Martin Swart I have heard my grandfather talk
of, and of the jolly Almains whom he commanded, with their slashed
doublets and quaint hose, all frounced with ribands above the
nether-stocks. Here's a song goes of Martin Swart, too, an I had but
memory for it:--

'Martin Swart and his men,
Saddle them, saddle them,
Martin Swart and his men;
Saddle them well.'"

[This verse of an old song actually occurs in an old play where
the singer boasts,

"Courteously I can both counter and knack