only beads I loved to tell Were the beads of dew on the spangled thorn. 

       The baron was going to storm, but the friar paused, and Matilda sang in repetition,—     

  Little I reck of matin bell, But drown its toll with my clanging horn:  And the only beads I love to tell Are the beads of dew on the spangled thorn. 

       And then she and the friar sang the four lines together, and rang the changes upon them alternately.     

  Little I reck of matin bell, 

       sang the friar.     

       “A precious friar,” said the baron.     

       But drown its toll with my clanging horn, sang Matilda.     

       “More shame for you,” said the baron.     

  And the only beads I love to tell Are the beads of dew on the spangled thorn, 

       sang Matilda and the friar together.     

       “Penitent and confessor,” said the baron: “a hopeful pair truly.”      

       The friar went on,—     

  An archer keen I was withal, As ever did lean on greenwood tree; And could make the fleetest roebuck fall, A good three hundred yards from me. Though changeful time, with hand severe, Has made me now these joys forego, Yet my heart bounds whene’er I hear Yoicks! hark away! and tally ho! 

       Matilda chimed in as before.     

       “Are you mad?” said the baron. “Are you insane? Are you possessed? What do you mean? What in the devil’s name do you both mean?”      

  Yoicks! hark away! and tally ho! 

       roared the friar.     

       The baron’s pent-up wrath had accumulated like the waters above the dam of an overshot mill. The pond-head of his passion being now filled to the utmost limit of its capacity, and beginning to overflow in the quivering of his lips and the flashing of his 

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