"My story is not long," said the artist, "but your honour had better
sit while you listen to it." So saying, he approached to the fire a
three-footed stool, and took another himself; while Dickie Sludge, or
Flibbertigibbet, as he called the boy, drew a cricket to the smith's
feet, and looked up in his face with features which, as illuminated by
the glow of the forge, seemed convulsed with intense curiosity. "Thou
too," said the smith to him, "shalt learn, as thou well deservest at my
hand, the brief history of my life; and, in troth, it were as well tell
it thee as leave thee to ferret it out, since Nature never packed a
shrewder wit into a more ungainly casket.--Well, sir, if my poor story
may pleasure you, it is at your command, But will you not taste a stoup
of liquor? I promise you that even in this poor cell I have some in
store."
"Speak not of it," said Tressilian, "but go on with thy story, for my
leisure is brief."
"You shall have no cause to rue the delay," said the smith, "for
your horse shall be better fed in the meantime than he hath been this
morning, and made fitter for travel."
With that the artist left the vault, and returned after a few minutes'
interval. Here, also, we pause, that the narrative may commence in
another chapter.