THE CHRONICLE OF CLEMENDY
as if he were a herald on a coronacion day." "Well, well," replied Phil Ambrose, "it is my turn, and I will do my best to add one more pleasant circumstance to the Uske Roadway and the Forest of Gyronne." "Of flower de Luce and the Lyonne Rampant you should rather say," quoth I. "I speak of the field," said he, "I speak of the field; for there are no lions in the forest nor flower-de-luces; but the subtilest foxes and vixens in all Gwent, and an undergrowth of daffodils and afterwards of red campion and the purple Iacinth, the flower that cries woe. And before Michaelmas it is truly gyronny of gules and or. But talk not to me now, but let me smoke my pipe to the last ash, and then you shall have my tale." And before long the pipe came to an end, and Phil looked around him: "Blow horns," said he, "sound me one long and glorious strain as the nights' onsetting, make me purple musick, my companions; before I devise my story of old Gwent." Then the bugles rang out full and clearly, till all the valley and the wood seemed satiate with sound; and as the last dying note dropped back from the hilltops upon us the Spigot Clerk began his tale.
