It was evening--that time before the moon is up and when the
earth is dark, as yet, and full of shadows. Now as I went, by
some chance there recurred to me the words of an old song I had
read somewhere, years ago, words written in the glorious, brutal,
knightly days of Edward the First, of warlike memory; and the
words ran thus: "For her love I carke, and care,
For her love I droop, and dare,
For her love my bliss is bare.
And I wax wan!"
"I wonder what poor, love-sick, long-dead-and-forgotten fool
wrote that?" said I aloud.
"For her love, in sleep I slake,
For her love, all night I wake,
For her love, I mourning make
More than any man!"
Some doughty squire-at-arms, or perhaps some wandering knight
(probably of a dark, unlovely look), who rode the forest ways
with his thoughts full of Her, and dreaming of Her loveliness.
"Howbeit, he was, beyond all doubt, a fool and a great one!" said
I, "for it is to be inferred, from these few words he has left
us, that his love was hopeless. She was, perhaps, proud and of a
high estate, one who was above him, and far beyond his reach--who
was not likely even to look his way. Doubtless she was
beautiful, and therefore haughty and disdainful, for disdainful
pride is an attribute of beauty, and ever was and ever will be
--and hence it came that our misfortunate squire, or knight-errant,
was scorned for his pains, poor fool! Which yet was his own
fault, after all, and, indeed, his just reward, for what has any
squire-at-arms or lusty knight, with the world before him, and
glory yet unachieved--to do with love? Love is a bauble--a toy,
a pretty pastime for idle folk who have no thought above such
--away with it!--Bah!" And, in my mind--that is to say, mentally
--I set my thumb to my nose, and spread my fingers, and wagged
them--even as the Postilion had done. And yet, despite this, the
words of the old song recurred again and again, pathetically
insistent, voicing themselves in my footsteps so that, to banish
them, I presently stood still.
And in that very moment a gigantic figure came bursting through
the hedge, clearing the ditch in a single bound--and Black George
confronted me.
Haggard of face, with hair and beard matted and unkempt, his
clothes all dusty and torn, he presented a very wild and terrible
appearance; and beneath one arm he carried two bludgeons. The
Pedler had spoken truly, then, and, as I met the giant's
smouldering eye, I felt my mouth become suddenly parched and dry,
and the palms of my hands grew moist and clammy.