Giles.  The marrying?  What’s that you’re telling me?

Old man.  ’Tis at noon this day that she’s to be wed.

Giles.  Who are you speaking of, old man?

Old man.  And where is your lordship journeying this day if ’tis not to the marrying?

Giles.  Who’s getting wed up yonder, tell me quickly?

Old man.  ‘Tis th’ old farmer’s daughter what’s to wed come noon-tide.

Giles. [Starting.] Millie!  O that is heavy news. [Looking at his hand.] Then ’tis as I feared, for since daybreak yesterday the brightness has all gone from out of the seven stones.  That’s how ’twould be, she told me once.

[He turns away from the others in deep distress of mind.

George.  Us’ll see no Camel Farm this day.

John.  And th’ inside of I be crying out for victuals.

Old man.  Then you be not of these parts, masters?

George.  No, us be comed from right over the seas, along of master.

John.  Ah, ’tis a fine gentleman, master.  But powerful misfortunate in things of the heart.

George.  Ah, he’d best have stopped where he was.  Camel Farm baint no place for the like of he to go courting at.

John.  Ah, master be used to them great palaces, all over gold and marble with windows as you might drive a waggon through, and that you might.

George.  All painted glass.  And each chair with golden legs to him, and a sight of silver vessels on the table as never you did dream of after a night’s drinking, old man. [Giles comes slowly towards them.

Giles.  And who is she to wed, old man?

Old man.  Be you a-speaking of the young mistress up at Camel Farm, my lord?

Giles.  Yes.  With whom does she go to church to-day?

Old man.  ’Tis along of Master Andrew that her do go.  What lives up
Cranham way.

Giles.  Ah, th’ old farmer was always wonderful set on him. [A pause.

Old man.  I be a poor old wretch what journeys upon the roads, master, and maybe I picks a crust here and gets a drink of water there, and the shelter of the pig-stye wall to rest the bones of me at night time.

Giles.  What matters it if you be old and poor, master, so that the heart of you be whole and unbroken?

Old man.  Us poor old wretches don’t carry no hearts to th’ insides of we.  The pains of us do come from the having of no victuals and from the winter’s cold when snow do lie on the ground and the wind do moan over the fields, and when the fox do bark.

Giles.  What is the pang of hunger and the cold bite of winter set against the cruel torment of a disappointed love?

Old man.  I baint one as can judge of that, my lord, seeing that I be got a poor old badger of a man, and the days when I was young and did carry a heart what could beat with love, be ahind of I, and the feel of them clean forgot.