One summer morn, not far from this same cottage, in a dewy lane, walled high with hedge of odorous hawthorn, two gallants reclined upon the grass while they held close converse. The one was Prince Edward, heir to the English crown; the other, his friend and: confidant, Edward Lacy, Earl of Lincoln.
“I tell thee, Ned,” said the prince, “she is the most peerless piece of loveliness that ever tangled my thoughts in the web of her golden hair.”
“Still harping on the rustic Margaret, my lord?” rejoined Lacy. “Do you forget your sire is even now looking out for the ship which bears from Spain the dark-eyed Elinor?”
“I care not for her, nor all Spain beside. My thoughts are set on Margaret only. If thou hadst seen her but even now, as I did, Ned, working among her cream-bowls, her white arms bared, plunging in among the yellow curds, her soft hair dropping over her rosy cheeks, the smile that parted her cherry lips,— I tell thee, Lacy, thou, like me, would be ready to hazard crown and head with it, to win this lovely maiden of Fresingfield.”
“Not I, my lord,” laughed Lacy. “No woman’s glance has ever wounded my heart. I’ faith, though, I am sorry for thee, and I such fear what the king would say to thy rustic ove.”
