“Ah!” cried Claude, “you know not with whom you have to deal.”  He crossed himself, clasped his hands, and said:—­“I here vow to Saint Eloi, under whose protection is my noble craft, to make two inches of enamelled silver, adorned with the utmost labor I can bestow.  One shall be for the statue of my lady the virgin, and the other for my patron saint, if I succeed, to the end that I may give thanks for the emancipation of Tiennette, here present, and for whom I pray their high assistance.  Moreover, I vow, by my eternal salvation, to prosecute this enterprise with courage, to expend therein all that I possess, and to abandon it only with my life.  Heaven hath heard me, and thou, fair one,” he added, turning to the girl.

“Ah, my lord!  My cow is running across the field,” cried she weeping, at the knees of the good man.  “I will love you all my life—­but recall your vow.”

“Let us seek the cow,” said the goldsmith, raising her, without daring to imprint a kiss upon her lips.

“Yes,” said she, “for I shall be beaten.”

The goldsmith ran after the cow, which recked little of their loves.  But she was seized by the horns, and held in the grasp of Claude as in an iron vice.  For a trifle he would have hurled her into the air.

“Farewell, dearest.  If you go into the city, come to my house, near St. Leu.  I am called Master Anseau, and am the goldsmith of our seigneur, the king of France, at the sign of St. Eloi.  Promise me to be in this field the next Sabbath, and I will not fail to come, though it were raining halberts.”

“I will, my lord.  And, in the meanwhile, my prayers shall ascend to heaven for your welfare.”

There she remained standing, like a saint carved in stone, stirring not, until she could no longer see the burgess, who retired with slow steps, turning every now and then to look upon her.  And even when he was long lost to sight, she remained there until nightfall, lost in reverie, and not certain whether what had happened was a dream or bright reality.  It was late when she returned home, where she was beaten for her tardiness,—­but she did not feel the blows.

The good burgess, on his part, lost his appetite, closed his shop, and wandered about, thinking only of the maiden of St. Germain, seeing her image everywhere.  On the morrow, he took his way towards the abbey, in great apprehension, but still determined to speak to my lord abbot.  But as he bethought him that it would be most prudent to put himself under the protection of some powerful courtier, he retraced his steps, and sought out the royal chamberlain, whose favor he had gained by various courtesies, and especially by the gift of a rare chain to the lady whom he loved.  The chamberlain readily promised his assistance, had his horse saddled and a hackney made ready for the goldsmith, with whom he came presently to the abbey, and demanded to see the abbot, who was then Monseigneur Hugo de Senecterre, and was ninety-three years old.  Being come into the hall, with the goldsmith, who was trembling in expectation of his doom, the chamberlain prayed the Abbot Hugo to grant him a favor in advance, which could be easily done, and would do him pleasure.  Whereat, the wily abbot shook his head, and replied that it was expressly forbidden by the canons to plight one’s faith in this manner.