“For that,” said the carline, “thou needest neither sword nor helm.  I was afeard that thou wert about departing, and thy departure would be a grief to my heart:  in the deep wood thou mightest be so bestead as to need a sword in thy fist; but what shouldst thou do with it in this Plain of Abundance, where are nought but peaceful husbandmen and frank and kind maidens? and all these are as if they had drunk a draught of the well at the world’s end.”

Ralph started as she said the word, but held his peace awhile.  Then he said:  “And who is lord of this fair land?” “There is no lord, but a lady,” said the carline.  “How hight she?” said Ralph.  “We call her the Lady of Abundance,” said the old woman.  Said Ralph:  “Is she a good lady?” “She is my lady,” said the carline, “and doeth good to me, and there is not a carle in the land but speaketh well of her—­ it may be over well.”  “Is she fair to look on?” said Ralph.  “Of women-folk there is none fairer,” said the carline; “as to men, that is another thing.”

Ralph was silent awhile, then he said:  “What is the Well at the World’s End?”

“They talk of it here,” said she, “many things too long to tell of now:  but there is a book in this house that telleth of it; I know it well by the look of it though I may not read in it.  I will seek it for thee to-morrow if thou wilt.”

“Have thou thanks, dame,” said he; “and I pray thee forget it not; but now I will go forth.”

“Yea,” said the carline, “but abide a little.”

Therewith she went into the buttery, and came back bearing with her a garland of roses of the garden, intermingled with green leaves, and she said:  “The sun is yet hot and over hot, do this on thine head to shade thee from the burning.  I knew that thou wouldst go abroad to-day, so I made this for thee in the morning; and when I was young I was called the garland-maker.  It is better summer wear than thy basnet.”

He thanked her and did it on smiling, but somewhat ruefully; for he said to himself:  “This is over old a dame that I should wear a love-token from her.”  But when it was on his head, the old dame clapped her hands and cried:  “O there, there!  Now art thou like the image of St. Michael in the Choir of Our Lady of the Thorn:  there is none so lovely as thou.  I would my Lady could see thee thus; surely the sight of thee should gladden her heart.  And withal thou art not ill clad otherwise.”

Indeed his raiment was goodly, for his surcoat was new, and it was of fine green cloth, and the coat-armour of Upmead was beaten on it, to wit, on a gold ground an apple-tree fruited, standing by a river-side.