There was a great jousting at Crecy a little later, and Gaston went there to deal with certain knights and princes among the tilters, and left the shop in Dickon’s charge.  Restless with the magic of a summer night after he had barred the little place, he wandered away over the white ancient road.  He lay down on a grassy bank, where boughs laden with drifting blossoms hung over an orchard wall, and looked up at the stars, thinking.

“‘Tes like what they tell of the Saracens’ magic,” he said half aloud, “this that makes a man do what’s clean against his own will.”

“Hammer not cold iron, friend,” said a deep voice near by.  “Saracen magic is naught save the wisdom of necessity, and that we all learn in our time.”

Dickon looked up at a tall man in a traveler’s cloak, who had come through the gate in the wall just then.  The upper part of the face was hidden by the hood, but the mouth wore a quiet smile.  The voice was that of a knight, and Dickon got to his feet and bowed.  “I know not what you were thinking of when you spoke of Saracen magic,” the stranger went on, “but I would I could find an armorer for a bit of work on my dagger.  ’Tis a Damascus blade, but there’s no gramarye in it, I promise you.”

This was something to do at any rate.  “An’t please you, my lord,” Dickon said quickly, “I am journeyman to Gaston of Abbeville, who is counted the best armorer in these parts.  I may be able for the work if ’tis not too skillful.”

“I could do it myself,” the knight said carelessly, “if I had but the fire and tools.  I came but an hour ago, and I must go on to-morrow.”

The two went back to the shop, and the fire was kindled, a torch was set in a wrought-iron wall-cresset, and the work begun.  Dickon saw with surprise that the knight himself had no small knowledge of the craft of the armorer.

The dagger was of the finest Saracen steel work, the haft inlaid with gold.  Inside it the knight wished to conceal some jewels of no very great value, in a hollow made for the purpose and opened by twisting a round boss on the hilt.  This was often done by travelers, since a man’s dagger was his companion day and night, and in case of disaster he might thus have at hand the means to pay his way.

“That blade,” the knight observed, trying its edge, “was the gift of a Saracen emir I made friends with beyond Damascus.  Nay, look not so amazed, lad.  They are no more wizards than you or I.”

He must have divined the questions trembling on Dickon’s lips, for when the work was done he still sat in the doorway and seemed in no haste to go.  The white moon flooded the place and with the glow of the brazier made curious blended lights and shadows.  The knight had thrown aside his cloak, and showed himself bronzed, keen-faced and active, like one who had done his part both in council-hall and camp.  “It is like this,” he went on, clasping his knee with brown strong hands.  “This Christendom