"Tell me now; how do you love this Mistress Quinton?"
At this I fell suddenly into a fit of shame and bashful embarrassment. The assurance that I had gained at Court forsook me, and I was tongue-tied as any calf-lover.
"I—I don't know," I stammered.
"Nay, but I grow old. Pray tell me, Mr Dale," he urged, beginning to laugh at my perturbation.
For my life I could not; it seems to me that the more a man feels a thing the harder it is for him to utter; sacred things are secret, and the hymn must not be heard save by the deity.
The King suddenly bent forward and beckoned. Rochester was passing by, with him now was the Duke of Monmouth. They approached; I bowed low to the Duke, who returned my salute most cavalierly. He had small reason to be pleased with me, and his brow was puckered. The King seemed to find fresh amusement in his son's bearing, but he made no remark on it, and, addressing himself to Rochester, said:
"Here, my lord, is a young gentleman much enamoured of a lovely and most chaste maiden. I ask him what this love of his is—for my memory fails—and behold he cannot tell me! In case he doesn't know what it is that he feels, I pray you tell him."
Rochester looked at me with an ironical smile.
"Am I to tell what love is?" he asked.
"Ay, with your utmost eloquence," answered the King, laughing still and pinching his dog's ears.