the youth's handsome features save the light-heartedness of a happy spirit. He seemed to think it necessary, however, to explain more perfectly the meaning of what he had been saying.
"Harbor not the thought," he continued, "that I, in any wise, approve the damnable doctrines which, by many zealous Protestants, are ascribed to the Catholic Church, viz: that religion consists in the mumbling of unmeaning forms and performance of unnecessary ceremonies; in the gaudy decoration of temples with pictures and statues, which some consider an incitement to devotion; in an entire abandonment of the soul of the layman to the care of the priest, as if the laic himself had no part in working out his salvation. As a good Protestant, I am bound to condemn and anathematize these errors; but, more distinctly, I hold that our Puritan brethren (to come back to the point of departure) are over-strict and unwise in applying a Procrustean measure in their discipline, and, for that reason, if for no other, they cannot be a Church universal. Too stiff, unbending and unforgiving are they to the weaknesses of human nature, and, therefore, (without more,) I predict utter failure to every attempt of theirs to make the natives like themselves. They do forget that milk, not flesh meat, is the food for babes."
"Hold you these Puritans to be, in any true sense, a Church at all?" inquired Arundel.
Again the Knight looked sharply at the other, and this time he burst into a laugh, wherein, it seemed to the young man, a sneer was mingled with the gaiety.
"That were a dangerous question," he answered, "anywhere else than three days' journey from Winthrop, and to ears less forgiving than mine. But here we are, debating, as thou didst intimate a moment ago, more like two pattering monks than journeying like merry cavaliers. For my part, the dissensions of Christendom weary me, and I prefer to leave to the holy men vowed to the service of the altar, the labor of unloosing the knots of controversy, rather than perplex my brains with them. Come, Master Arundel, hast never a song wherewith to waken the echoes of the virgin forest and shorten the toils of our way?"
"I esteem not myself a singer, though I can troll a stave or two," replied the young man. "But I fear that my minstrelsy would be rude and uncouth to the cultivated ears of one who, like you, Sir Christopher, hath listened to the lays of many lands, and so, refined and perfected his taste."
"It is true," said the Knight, "that I have heard the songs of many countries, warbled by beauty to the accompanying sounds of divers instruments, from Spain to Persia, from the Andalusian guitar to the Turkish lute. But fear me not. I am no supercilious critic. Thy modesty hides merit. I will be bound now that thy performance will exceed thy promise."
"But is there no danger of attracting wandering savages, and so being taken prisoners, or shot with their arrows?"
"The danger of being treated as enemies is less, for what Indian would suspect such of going singing through the woods?"
"Then here is my song," said Arundel, "but I shall look for a like complaisance on thy part."
"Who loves the greenwood cool and sweet, O! let him come with me! No harsher sound his ears shall greet, Than songs of birds so free; No sight less fair his eyes shall view, Than trees, and ferns, and flowers, Sun, stars, the branches shimmering through, To light the flying hours.
"Ambition hither cannot come, Here Pomp is out of place, And fawning Flattery finds no home With Simper and Grimace, But Nature, in her artless dress, (A greenwood nymph is she,) With eyes so wild and flowing tress, And bare ungartered knee.