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dullness have I none: nor am I overfond of being discussed, my Johnnie.”
    “You’ve quick ears, Lymond.”
    “But yours, like Midas whispering in the hole, are closer to the ground.… What do you think of our new recruit?”
    If the gypsy found the question surprising, or the reference offensive which it undoubtedly was, he showed nothing of it, but simply turned and bent an admiring glance on the tall young figure behind Lymond.
    “My, my. He’s a bonny blossom to be let away from his nurse.”
    The stranger flushed. He was a graceful creature, with fair skin and a thatch of carroty curls. His clothes, of a thoroughly expensive and unostentatious kind, were a credit to tailor and souter: his scabbard and accoutrements were inlaid and ornamented with a little more
brio
than the rule.
    “—And his fancy hat!” breathed Matthew in awe.
    The newcomer addressed Lymond with dignity. “I must confess to disappointment. Do you mete out this kind of treatment to every gentleman who offers you his sword?”
    “Big words, too!”
    Turkey Mat was silenced by the Master’s hand. Lymond, his back to the stone dike at one end of the yard, crossed his legs gently before him and instantly the yard, led by curiosity and its hope of a rough-house, deployed itself. Turkey and Bullo, grinning, ranged themselves on either side of the Master. The young man, stranded perforce in an open circle, stood his ground.
    “Oh, Marigold!” Lymond spoke plaintively. “A silken tongue, a heart of cruelty. Don’t berate us. We’re only poor scoundrels—vagabonds—scraps of society; unlettered and untaught. Besides, we didn’t believe you.”
    “Well, you can believe me now,” said the young man belligerently. “I didn’t ride all the way from—all this way to find you just to pass a dull Tuesday. I’m taken to be a fair fighting man. I’m prepared to join you; and I’d guess you need all the swords you can get. Unless you’re overnervous, of course.”
    “Terror,” said Lymond, “is our daily bread in the Wuthenheer. Weeat it, we live by it and we disseminate it; and not only between Christmas and Epiphany: there is no close season for fright. So you want to join us. Shall I take you? Mat, my friend, awful and stern, strong and corpulent—what do you say?”
    Turkey was in no doubt. “I’d want to know a good bit more about the laddie, sir, before I had him next me with a knife.”
    “Oh,” said Lymond, “would you? And what about you, Johnnie?”
    Johnnie Bullo regarded his fingers. “If I were yourself, I would perhaps give him his head. He looks a meek enough child.”
    “So did Heliogabalus at an early age,” said Lymond. “And Attila and Torquemada and Nero and the man who invented the boot. The only thing they had in common was a cherubic adolescence. And red hair, of course, makes it worse.”
    He considered, while the boy watched him steadily; then said, “Infant, I can’t resist it. I’m going to put you to the proof; and if you impress us with your worth, then quicquid libet, licet; as was remarked on another, unsavoury occasion. Are you willing to be wooed, sweet Marigold?”
    Redhead was not charmed. “I’m willing to give you reasonable proof of my talents, of course.”
    “Proof of your talents! … Oh, little Peg-a-Ramsey, we are going to do well together. Come along then. Gif thou should sing well ever in thy life, here is in fay the time, and eke the space. Your name?”
    “You can call me Will.”
    “—Sir,” said Lymond affectionately. “Surname and parentage?”
    “My own affair.” A rustle among the onlookers gave credit to this piece of bravura; Lymond was undisturbed. “Never fear. We’re all runts and bastards of one sort or another. Do you swim? Hunt? Wrestle? I see. Can you use a crossbow? Your longest shot? Can you count? Read and write? Ah, the sting of sarcasm—Have we a scholar here? Then produce us a specimen,” said Lymond. “What about some modest quatrains? Frae