this burning day of blue and gold. But no wind coming,
he sought some other agency for these gusts, and discovered it in a
wheat-field where was a young fellow stooking sheaves. A very young
fellow he was, turned copper by the sun; and as he stooked he heaved
such sighs that for every shock he stooked two tumbled at his feet.
When Martin had seen this happen more than once he called aloud to the
harvester.

"Young master!" said Martin, "the mill that grinds your grain will need
no wind to its sails, and that's flat."

The young man looked up from his labors to reply.

"There are no mill-stones in all the world," said he, "strong enough to
grind the grain of my grief."

"Then I would save these gales till they may be put to more use,"
remarked Martin, "and if I remember rightly you wear a lady's ring on
your little finger, though I cannot remember her name or yours."

"Her heavenly name is Gillian," said the youth, "and mine is Robin Rue."

"And are you wedded yet?" asked Martin.

"Wedded?" he cried. "Have you forgotten that she is locked with six
keys inside her father's Well-House?"

"But this was long ago," said Martin. "Is she there yet?"

"She is," said Robin Rue, "and here am I."

"Well, all states must end some time," said Martin Pippin.

"Even life," sighed Robin, "and therefore before the month is out I
shall wilt and be laid in the earth."

"That would be a pity," said Martin. "Can nothing save you?"

"Nothing but the keys to her prison, and they are in the keeping of
them that will not give them up."

"I remember," said Martin. "Six milkmaids."

"With hearts of flint!" cried Robin.

"Sparks may be struck from flint," said Martin, in his inconsequential
way. "But tell me, if Gillian's prison were indeed unlocked, would all
be well with you for ever?"

"Oh," said Robin Rue, "if her prison were unlocked and the prisoner in
these arms, this wheat should be flour for a wedding-cake."

"It is the best of all cakes," said Martin Pippin, "and the grain that
is destined thereto must not rot in the husk."

With these words he strolled out of the cornfield, gathered a harebell,
rang it so loudly in the ear of a passing rabbit that it is said never
to have stopped running till it found itself in France, and went up the
road humming and thrumming his lute.

On the road he met a Gypsy.

"Maids," said Joscelyn, "somebody is at the gate."

The milkmaids, who were eating apples, came clustering ab