“ AND now for your story, holy knight,” said Fortunatus
to St. George; “ for’twas your turn, only for this fatr lady
who came in before you.”

“ Aye, aye,’ said the saint, “I suppose i was, in sooth,
my turn. Ne'th’less, it gives me joy to follow so close so fair
and lovely a lady?’ And as he spoke he winked one eye at
Cinderella, beckoned towards her with his cup of ale, and
took a deep draught to her health, “I shall tell you,” said
he, as soon as he had caught his breath again, “a story
about an angel and a poor man who travelled with him,
and all the wonderful things the poor man saw the angel
do.”

“ That,” said the Blacksmith who made Death sit in his
pear-tree until the wind whistled through his ribs— that,
methinks, is a better thing to tell for a sermon than for a
story.”

“ Whether or no that be so,” said St. George, ‘you shall
presently hear for yourselves.”

Fle took another deep draught of ale, and then cleared hrs
throat.

“ Stop a bit, my friend,” said Ali Baba. “ What is your
story about ?”

“Tt is,” said St. George, “ about—

198