BY THE WAY
ON THE next morning while the darkness still palpitated in the sky, and the lucent day-star shone over the dreaming woods and rivulets; a tread of heavy boots clamoured about the passages and stairs, and at our doors was a knocking and a voice crying "Domini ocula aperiatis," or words resembling these, for I could never teach Efan to latinise honestly though I had laboured a whole month to put some learning into him. But I was pleased to hear Tom Bamfylde responding in a set Latin speech beginning "Justum: nam ibimus per vias nemorosas et vereta locorum amaeno"—It is meet: for we are to go by wooded ways and pleasant greeny places—"by streams of water and running brooks," he went on, "by the castle on the hill and the church by the road, even unto that delicious city the very jewell of sweet old Gwent." For Latin came from his tongue full smoothly, and hearing that tongue spoken half asleep he answered in it, much to the confusion and dismay of Efan who hated the language he was compelled now and again to speak; and as he would say "The words do rankle in my belly like sour ale, for they be not good words nor wholesome; but loathsome and hideous." And hearing this flight of Latin whistling about his ears, he made haste, and cursed himself in Welsh, and having sworn profanely, withdrew himself as quickly as he could. Then was great haste made on our part also and before long we were dressed in point; for I took out a fine habit I had of crimson velvet, well laced and purfled: and my three guests had, as I have said vestments of murry and tawny plush, so that we were, all four of us, right gallant and brave and fit for Uske on the Portreeve's holy-day. So one after another stamped down the stairs, and felt his way in the dim twilight along the passages and stumbled into the parlor; here was a fire burning, the shutters closed, and six tapers lighted, for us to see our breakfast, on which we fell solemnly and earnestly to work and passed around a tankard of the Brown Nut. And outside we heard the cocks singing lauds, with festal antiphons and ruling of the quire; for by Clemendy they had a house under a Chanticleer and sub-chanticleer and lived together as virtuously as could be expected. And when we had done with cup and platter we sallied forth and got into the saddle, just as the sun rose above Kemeys and Wentwood and flung his light right over the great round hills that are in the west. Then the horns began to play before the porch at Clemendy; a rousing melody they made with tarantaras and magistral flourishes; full pompously and gorgeously we rode out at the gate, doffed our feathers to the church and turned up the road to Uske. But for all our clamour I heard a full rich voice swelling up from the village—"What bird is this, I pray thee tell me, That carolleth so loud at dawning, O dear mother" and in the fine trills and graces of the old Welsh song, I recognised very well the sweet throat of a sweetheart of mine called Mevamwy, who thus (dear merry maiden) sent us on our merry way. Then along the deep and narrow road, one riding after another between high banks of flowers and green leaves, till we began to pass through the midst of the forest, and here the buglers ceased, for with blowing their throats were dry, and with puffing their cheeks weary; and the way being wider we were able to go more together and to talk at our ease. "Here halt," said Nick Leonard the Lord Maltworm, "and cease horn, and strike flint on steel, for I am minded to smoke a strong whiffling pipe of tobacco." "So we, for one cannot relish the morning air without tobacco smoke, this forest roadway is so sweetly sheltered and embowered on either side that the blue clouds we blow, shall float and die into the larger blue, gently and by slow degrees." Thus the Rubrican answered for us all, and the smoke's wreaths rose upwards as he had said, and truly I shall never forget, so long as I live, the delicious savour of that pipe of Trinidado, taken in midforest and mingled with the morning, and gladness, sunlight, and green leaves and many roadside flowers. So we rode slowly along, and after a little while Tom Bamfylde (ah what a fair monument has poor Tom in Abergavenny minster) said "Let the fat Spigot Clerk smoke out his pipe and show forth one of the best tales he has in his hutch; and when we have to ride singly again, he shall be second, and bawl out the phrases of his story, 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.