as seeds, and now and then he stopped his sowing altogether, and
putting his face between his hands sobbed bitterly. When this had
happened three or four times, Martin hailed the youth, who was then
fairly close to the gate.

"Young master!" said he. "The baker of this crop will want no salt to
his baking, and that's flat."

The young man dropped his hands and turned his brown and tear-stained
countenance upon the Minstrel. He was so young a man that he wanted his
beard.

"They who taste of my sorrow," he replied, "will have no stomach for
bread."

And with that he fell anew to his sowing and sighing, and passed up the
field.

When he came down again Martin observed, "It must be a very bitter
sorrow that will put a man off his dinner."

"It is the bitterest," said the youth, and went his way.

At his next coming Martin inquired, "What is the name of your sorrow?"

"Love," said the youth. By now he was somewhat distant from the gate
when he came abreast of it, and Martin Pippin did not catch the word.
So he called louder:

"What?"

"Love!" shouted the youth. His voice cracked on it. He appeared
slightly annoyed. Martin chewed a grass and watched him up and down the
meadow.

At the right moment he bellowed:

"I was never yet put off my feed by love."

"Then," roared the youth, "you have never loved."

At this Martin jumped over the gate and ran along the furrow behind the
boy.

"I have loved," he vowed, "as many times as I have tuned lute-strings."

"Then," said the youth, not turning his head, "you have never loved in
vain."

"Always, thank God!" said Martin fervently.

The youth, whose name was Robin Rue, suddenly dropped all his seed in
one heap, flung up his arms, and,

"Alas!" he cried. "Oh, Gillian! Gillian!" And began to sob more heavily
than ever.

"Tell me your trouble," said the Minstrel kindly.

"Sir," said the youth, "I do not know your name, and your clothes are
very tattered. But you are the first who has cared whether or no my
heart should break since my lovely Gillian was locked with six keys
into her father's Well-House, and six young milkmaids, sworn virgins
and man-haters all, to keep the keys."

"The thirsty," said Martin, "make little of padlocks when within a
rope's length of water."

"But, sir," continued the youth earnestly, "this Well-House is set in
the midst of an Apple-Orchard enclosed in a hawthorn hedge full six
feet high, and no entrance thereto but one smal