“Here come I, a Turkish Knight,
Who learnt in Turkish land to fight,”
continuing the discourse throughout the scenes to the concluding
catastrophe of his fall by the hand of Saint George.
Eustacia had occasionally heard the part recited before. When the lad
ended she began, precisely in the same words, and ranted on without
hitch or divergence till she too reached the end. It was the same
thing, yet how different. Like in form, it had the added softness and
finish of a Raffaelle after Perugino, which, while faithfully
reproducing the original subject, entirely distances the original art.
Charley’s eyes rounded with surprise. “Well, you be a clever lady!” he
said, in admiration. “I’ve been three weeks learning mine.”
“I have heard it before,” she quietly observed. “Now, would you do
anything to please me, Charley?”
“I’d do a good deal, miss.”
“Would you let me play your part for one night?”
“Oh, miss! But your woman’s gown—you couldn’t.”
“I can get boy’s clothes—at least all that would be wanted besides the
mumming dress. What should I have to give you to lend me your things,
to let me take your place for an hour or two on Monday night, and on no
account to say a word about who or what I am? You would, of course,
have to excuse yourself from playing that night, and to say that
somebody—a cousin of Miss Vye’s—would act for you. The other mummers
have never spoken to me in their lives so that it would be safe enough;
and if it were not, I should not mind. Now, what must I give you to
agree to this? Half a crown?”