“One treasures one’s confidence from the unsympathetic,” ventured the minstrel.  “Now the young man of the hay, I take it, is intensely practical and let us say—­unromantic.  Lest he laugh and scoff—­” he shrugged and glanced furtively at the girl’s face.  It was brightly flushed and very lovely.  The velvet dusk of Diane’s eyes was sparkling with the zest of woodland adventure.  To repose a confidence in one so spirited and beautiful was fascinating sport—­and safe.

Now the minstrel found as the morning waned that he was not so strong as he had fancied.  Wherefore he lay humbly by the fire and talked of his fortunes by the roadside.  Bits of philosophy, of sparkling jest, of vivid description, to these Diane listened with parted lips and eyes alive with wholesome interest as her guest contrived to veil himself in a silken web of romance and mystery.

It was sunset before the girl felt uncomfortably that he ought to go.  A little later, on her way to the van, she found a volume of Herodotus in the original Greek which with a becoming air of guilt the minstrel owned that he had dropped.

“Ah, Herodotus!” he murmured, smiling.  “After all, was he not the wandering, romantic father of all of us who are nomads!”

“I wonder,” said a lazy voice among the trees, “I wonder now if old Herodotus ever heard of a hay-camp.”

Removing a wisp of hay from his shoe with a certain matter-of-fact grace characteristic of him, Mr. Poynter, who had been invisible all day, arrived in the camp of the enemy.  Diane saw with a fretful flash of wonder that he was immaculate as usual.  She saw too that the minstrel was annoyed and that he dropped the volume of Herodotus into his pocket with a flush and a frown.

“I trust,” said Philip politely, “that you are better?”

Save for a slight dizziness, the minstrel said, he was.

“And yet,” urged Philip feelingly, “I’m sure you’ll not take to the road to-night, feeling wobbly.  The inn back there in the village is immensely attractive.  And a bed is the place for a sick man.”

“He will remain where he is,” flashed Diane perversely, “until he feels quite able to go on.”

“Will you?” asked Philip pointedly.

The minstrel rose weakly and glanced at Diane with profound gratitude.

“After all,” he said hurriedly, “he is doubtless right.  Ill or not I must go on.”

“An excellent notion!” approved Philip cordially.  “I’ll go with you.”

Now whether or not the hurry and excitement of rising in these somewhat frictional circumstances brought on a recurrence of the nomad’s singular disease, Diane did not know, but certainly he staggered and fell back, faint and moaning by the fire, thereby arousing an immediate commotion.

Philip grimly took his pulse and met Diane’s sympathetic glance with one of honest indignation.

“Diane,” he said in a low voice, “he is tricking you into sympathy merely for the comfort of your camp.  Twice now his fainting has been attended by an absolutely normal pulse.  Let Ras and Johnny carry him back to his rumpus machine and I’ll drive him to the inn.”