should surely die—”    But here he met Duke Joc'lyn's fierce blue eye, And silent fell and in his poke did dive, And slowly counted thence gold pieces five, Though still he muttered fiercely 'neath his breath, Such baleful words as: “'S blood!” and “'S bones!” and “'S death!”    Then laughed the Duke and from the greenwood strode; But scarce was he upon the dusty road, Than came the rogue who, louting to his knee:   “O Fool! Sir Fool! Most noble Fool!” said he.   “Either no fool, or fool forsooth thou art, That dareth thus to take an outlaw's part. Yet, since this day my rogue's life ye did spare, So now by oak, by ash, by thorn I swear—    “And mark, Sir Fool, and to my saying heed—   Shouldst e'er lack friends to aid thee in thy need Come by this stream where stands a mighty oak, Its massy bole deep-cleft by lightning stroke, Hid in this cleft a hunting-horn ye'll see, Take then this horn and sound thereon notes three. So shall ye find the greenwood shall repay The roguish life ye spared a rogue this day.”    So spake he; then, uprising from his knees, Strode blithe away and vanished 'mid the trees. Whereat Sir Pertinax shook doleful head:   “There go our good gold pieces, lord!” he said.   “Would that yon rogue swung high upon a tree, And in my poke our gold again might be. Full much I marvel, lord, and fain would know Wherefore and why unhanged didst let him go?”    Then answered the Duke singing on this wise:    “Good Pertinax, if on a tree Yon rogue were swinging high A deader rogue no man could see—   'He's but a rogue!' says you to me,   'But a living rogue!' says I.    “And since he now alive doth go More honest he may die, Yon rogue an honest man may grow, If we but give him time, I trow, Says I to you, says I.”    At this, Sir Pertinax growled in his beard— 

       My daughter GILLIAN interrupteth:     

   GILL: A beard? O father—beard will never do! No proper knight a beard ever grew.'   No knight could really romantic be Who wore a beard! So, father, to please me, No beard; they are, I think, such scrubby things—    MYSELF: Yet they are worn, sometimes, by poets and kings. GILL:   But your knight—    MYSELF: Oh, all right, My Gill, from your disparagement to save him, I, like a barber, will proceed to shave him. Sir Pertinax, then, stroked his smooth-shaved chin, And thus to curse he softly did begin,   “Par Dex, my lord—”  

       My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:     

   GILL: Your knight, dear father, seems to love to curse. MYSELF: He does. A difficult matter, child, in 

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