“The cage grows too small for me, lad,” he said, as he stood with Hilarius watching the sun sink below the Surrey uplands; “ay, and I love one woman, which is ill for a man of my trade. I must be away to my mistress, winter or no winter, else my song will die and my heart break.”
“’Tis even so with me, good Martin,” said Hilarius sadly; “I too would fain go forth and serve my mistress; but the cage door is barred, and I may not open it from within.”
Martin whistled and smote the lad friendly on the shoulder.
“Patience, lad, patience, thou art young yet. Eighteen this Martinmas, say you? In truth ’tis a great age, but still leaves time and to spare. ‘_All things come to a waiting man_,’ saith the proverb.”
A week later he chanced on Hilarius sitting on a bench under the south wall of the farmery cloister. It was a mild, melancholy day, and suited the Minstrel’s mood.
He sat down by him and told of King and Court; then when Hilarius had once more cried his longing, he said gravely:—
“One comes who will open more cage doors than thine and mine, lad—and yet earn no welcome.”
“It comes, lad, it comes; or I am greatly at fault. I saw the Plague once in Flanders, and fled against the wind, and so came out with a clean skin; now I am like to see it again; for it has landed in the south, and creeps this way. Mark my words, lad, thou wilt know Death ere the winter is out, and such as God keep thee from.”
Hilarius understood little of these words but the sound of them, and turned to speak of other things.
“Best get back to the cloister and Prior Stephen, lad.”
“Nay, good Martin, that may not be; but I have still a letter for the Abbat of St Alban’s, and would hasten thither if Sir John would set me free. Methinks I am a slow scholar,” went on poor Hilarius ruefully, “for I have not yet gone hungry—and as for love, methinks there are few folk to love in this wicked city.”
Martin laughed and then grew grave again.
“Maybe he comes who will teach thee both, and yet I would fain find thee a kinder master. Well, well, lad, get thee to St Alban’s an it be possible; thou art best in a cloister, methinks, for all thy wise Prior Stephen may say.”
“Three felons hung from a roadside tree, One black and one white and one grey; And the ravens plucked their eyes away From one and two and three, That honest men might see And thievish knaves should pay; Lest these might be As blind as they. Ah, well-a-day, well-a-day! One—two—three! On the gallows-tree hung they.”