"Your worship cannot but remember," said the smith, "that about three
years since, upon Saint Lucy's Eve, there came a travelling juggler to a
certain hall in Devonshire, and exhibited his skill before a worshipful
knight and a fair company.--I see from your worship's countenance, dark
as this place is, that my memory has not done me wrong."
"Thou hast said enough," said Tressilian, turning away, as wishing
to hide from the speaker the painful train of recollections which his
discourse had unconsciously awakened.
"The juggler," said the smith, "played his part so bravely that the
clowns and clown-like squires in the company held his art to be little
less than magical; but there was one maiden of fifteen, or thereby, with
the fairest face I ever looked upon, whose rosy cheek grew pale, and her
bright eyes dim, at the sight of the wonders exhibited."
"Peace, I command thee, peace!" said Tressilian.
"I mean your worship no offence," said the fellow; "but I have cause to
remember how, to relieve the young maiden's fears, you condescended
to point out the mode in which these deceptions were practised, and to
baffle the poor juggler by laying bare the mysteries of his art, as ably
as if you had been a brother of his order.--She was indeed so fair a
maiden that, to win a smile of her, a man might well--"
"Not a word more of her, I charge thee!" said Tressilian. "I do well
remember the night you speak of--one of the few happy evenings my life
has known."
"She is gone, then," said the smith, interpreting after his own fashion
the sigh with which Tressilian uttered these words--"she is gone, young,
beautiful, and beloved as she was!--I crave your worship's pardon--I
should have hammered on another theme. I see I have unwarily driven the
nail to the quick."
This speech was made with a mixture of rude feeling which inclined
Tressilian favourably to the poor artisan, of whom before he was
inclined to judge very harshly. But nothing can so soon attract the
unfortunate as real or seeming sympathy with their sorrows.
"I think," proceeded Tressilian, after a minute's silence, "thou wert in
those days a jovial fellow, who could keep a company merry by song, and
tale, and rebeck, as well as by thy juggling tricks--why do I find thee
a laborious handicraftsman, plying thy trade in so melancholy a dwelling
and under such extraordinary circumstances?"