"God knows," said I, "how excellent I am, and that where there is
lodging for the meanest upon earth there is lodging for me."

"What God knows," she said, "He mostly keeps to Himself. I speak of what
I see. Your excellency is on a frolic."

"My excellency died three weeks ago," I told her. "Oblige me by not
referring to it again; and if you will not give me direction, let me
carry your faggot for you."

"Why, how will that help your excellency?" says she.

"By satisfying you that I have some title left to the name," I replied.
"Believe me, I need the good opinion of my fellow-creatures. Will you
not humour me?"

"I cannot, sir," she said. "I can cease to carry my faggot, but that
won't help you very much."

I insisted--I don't know why; she stared at me with raised brows, then
jerked the faggot to the ground.

"Try," she said, and folded her arms across her chest, waiting.

It is a fact that I tussled, laboured and wrought at the accursed thing,
an ineffectual Hercules. Its weight was really enormous; how her slim
neck could have borne it without cracking puzzles me still, though I
know how like a Caryatid she was formed. She did not laugh at me, or
smile, she merely watched me--and so goaded me to put out all my