CHAPTER XIX HOW I MET BLACK GEORGE AGAIN, AND WHEREIN THE PATIENT READER SHALL FIND A "LITTLE BLOOD"
It was evening—that time before the moon is up and when the earth is dark, as yet, and full of shadows. Now as I went, by some chance there recurred to me the words of an old song I had read somewhere, years ago, words written in the glorious, brutal, knightly days of Edward the First, of warlike memory; and the words ran thus:
"For her love I carke, and care,
For her love I droop, and dare,
For her love my bliss is bare.
And I wax wan!"
"I wonder what poor, love-sick, long-dead-and-forgotten fool wrote that?" said I aloud.
"For her love, in sleep I slake,
For her love, all night I wake,
For her love, I mourning make
More than any man!"
Some doughty squire-at-arms, or perhaps
