"Wrath you not for the matter," said the damsel; "I will show you in
an instant that I know more of you than you do of yourself."
"Indeed," answered Graeme; "for whom then do you take me?"
"For the wild falcon," answered she, "whom a dog brought in his mouth
to a certain castle, when he was but an unfledged eyas--for the hawk
whom men dare not fly, lest he should check at game, and pounce on
carrion--whom folk must keep hooded till he has the proper light of
his eyes, and can discover good from evil."
"Well--be it so," replied Roland Graeme; "I guess at a part of your
parable, fair mistress mine--and perhaps I know as much of you as you
do of me, and can well dispense with the information which you are so
niggard in giving."
"Prove that," said the maiden, "and I will give you credit for more
penetration than I judged you to be gifted withal."
"It shall be proved instantly," said Roland Graeme. "The first letter
of your name is S, and the last N."
"Admirable," said his partner, "guess on."
"It pleases you to-day," continued Roland, "to wear the snood and
kirtle, and perhaps you may be seen to-morrow in hat and feather, hose
and doublet."
"In the clout! in the clout! you have hit the very white," said the
damsel, suppressing a great inclination to laugh.
"You can switch men's eyes out of their heads, as well as the heart
out of their bosoms."
These last words were uttered in a low and tender tone, which, to
Roland's great mortification, and somewhat to his displeasure, was so
far from allaying, that it greatly increased, his partner's
disposition to laughter.
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