"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.
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