“And then?”
“Perhaps the gibbet.”
“It’s true that the thieving craft is
a curst craft for the gallows, but to-morrow’s
trouble is like yesterday’s dinner, not worth
thinking on. We are here, safe and comfortable.
Let that suffice. And to-day, so far from doing
harm at which you must needs be uneasy, you have wrought
a miracle.”
“Wrought a miracle? What do you mean?”
“You have found a cabbage, and made a man.
Good night, Mistress Waynflete.”
“Good night, Master Wheatman.”
I imitated the regular breathing of a tired, sleeping
man. In a few minutes it became clear that she
was really asleep, and I pretended no longer, but
stretched out comfortably in the fragrant hay and soon
slept like a log.
THE CONJURER’S CAP
I awoke between darkness and daylight. Mistress
Waynflete still slept peacefully and there was as
yet no need to rouse her. I had slept in my shoes,
but now, I drew them off, lifted the bar of the door,
and stole out to look around. Not a soul was
stirring about the farm, and the only living creature
in sight was a sleepy cock, which scuttled off noisily
at my approach. I entered a cowshed, where a
fine, patient cow turned a reproachful eye on me,
as if rebuking me for my too early visit. I cheerily
clucked and slapped her on to her hoofs, and then,
failing to find any sort of cup or can, punched my
hat inside out and filled it with warm foaming milk.
With this spoil I hurried back to our quarters.
I had to leave the door open, and this gave me light
enough to look more closely at my companion.
She was still sleeping, her face calmly content, and
so had she slept through the night, for the coverlet
of hay was rising and falling undisturbed on her breast.
It was now time to wake her, and, having no free hand,
I knelt down to nudge her with my elbow. As I
did so, her face changed. A look of concern came
over it, then one of hesitation, then a sweet smile,
chasing each other as gleam chases gloom across the
meadows on an April day. She was dreaming, dreaming
pleasantly, and it was to a hard world that I awakened
her.
At my second nudge she half-opened her eyes and murmured,
“It’s very wide.” Then my greeting
aroused her fully, and she blushed wondrous red and
beautiful.
“Good morrow, Mistress Waynflete,” said
I. “I grieve to disturb you, and, pray
you, do not move too abruptly or over goes the breakfast.”
“Good morrow, Master Oliver,” she replied.
“I have slept well. I feel as if I’ve
quite enjoyed it. We do enjoy sleep, I think,
sometimes.”
“Or the dreams it brings, madam.”
She glanced quickly at me, as if afraid that I had
the power of reading dream-thoughts, and gaily said,
“And breakfast ready! This is even better
than the Paris fashion. What is it? More
of dear Kate’s cordial?”
