“Art the Gipsies’ queen?” asked the old man, bewitched by her.

“Not she,” answered his Grace, “but a plain gipsy wench who makes baskets and tells fortunes—­for all her good looks.  Thou’rt flattering her, old fellow.  All the men flatter her.”

“’Tis well there are some to flatter me,” said her Grace, showing her white teeth.  “Thou dost not.  But ’tis always so when a poor woman weds a man and tramps by the side of him instead of keeping him at her feet.”

And then they led their old host on to talk, and told him stories of what gipsies did, and of their living in tents and sleeping in the open, and of the ill-luck which sometimes befel them when the lord of the manor they camped on was a hard man and evil tempered.

“’Tis a Duke who rules over Camylott, is’t not?” the old fellow asked.

“Ay,” was her Grace’s answer, nodding her head.  “He is well enough, but his lady—­Lord! but they tell that she was a vixen before her marriage a few years gone!”

“I have seen her,” said his Grace.  “She is not ill to look at, and has done us no harm yet.”

“Ay, but she may,” says her Grace, nodding wisely again.  “Who knows what such a woman may turn out.  I have seen him!” She stopped, her elbows on the little round wooden table, her chin on her hands, and gave her saucy stare again.  “I’ll pay thee a compliment,” she said.  “He is a big fellow, and not unlike thee—­though he be Duke and thou naught but a vagabond gipsy.”

Their host had hearkened to them eagerly, and now he put in a question.  “Was not she the beauty that was married to an old Earl who left her widow?” he said.  “Was not she Countess Dunstanwolde?”

“Ay,” answered her Grace, quietly.

“Ecod!” cried the old fellow, “that minds me of a story, and ’twas a thing happened in this very house and room.  Look there!”

He pointed with something like excitement to the window.  ’Twas but seldom he had chance to tell his story, and ’twas a thing he dearly loved to do, life being but a dull thing at the Cow at Wickben, and few travellers passing that way.  A pair so friendly and gay and ready to hearken to his chatter as these two he had not seen for years.

“Look there!” he said.  “At that big hole in the wall.”

They turned together and looked at it in some wonder that her ladyship of Dunstanwolde should have any connection with it.  ’Twas indeed a big hole, and looked as if the plaster of the wall under the sill had been roughly broken and hacked.

“Ay,” said the host, “’tis a queer thing and came here in a strange way, being made by a gentleman’s sword, and he either wild with liquor or with rage.  Never shall I forget hearing his horse’s hoofs come tearing over the road, as if some man was riding for his life.  I was abed, and started out of my sleep at the sound of it.  ’Who’s chased by the devil at this time o’ night through Wickben village?’