"Let it content you that I am master of all secret knowledge, and well versed in the most intricate depths of ancient history.

Ah! my young sir, if you would only hear them! But you are afraid of me." "Afraid of you!" cried Sintram, with a wild laugh.
"Many a better man than you has been so before now," muttered the little Master; "but they did not like being told of it any more than you do." "To prove that you are mistaken," said Sintram, "I will remain here with you till the moon stands high in the heavens.

But you must tell me one of your stories the while." The little man, much pleased, nodded his head; and as they paced together up and down a retired elm-walk, he began discoursing as follows:-- "Many hundred years ago a young knight, called Paris of Troy, lived in that sunny land of the south where are found the sweetest songs, the brightest flowers, and the most beautiful ladies.

You know a song that tells of that fair land, do you not, young sir?
'Sing heigh, sing ho, for that land of flowers.'" Sintram bowed his head in assent, and sighed deeply.

"Now," resumed the little Master, "it happened that Paris led that kind of life which is not uncommon in those countries, and of which their poets often sing--he would pass whole months together in the garb of a peasant, piping in the woods and mountains and pasturing his flocks.