The Friar sat down on the stone bench near the Earl, who took no further notice of him than by a look, his eyes returning to dreamy contemplation of the river.
“Of what is my Lord thinking?” asked the Friar, gently.
“Of life,” said the Prince.
“Not very hopefully, I imagine.”
“The hope comes at the beginning, Father. Look at yonder pleasure-boat, with the lads and lasses in it, setting forth for a row. There is hope enough in their faces. But when the journey comes near its end, and the perilous bridge must be shot, and the night is setting in, what you see in the faces then will not be hope. It will be weariness; perhaps disgust and sorrow. And—in some voyages, the hope dies early.”
“True—if it has reference only to the day.”
“Ah,” responded the Prince, with a smile which had more sadness than mirth in it, “you mean to point me to the hope beyond. But the day is long Father. The night has not come yet, and the bridge is still to be shot. Ay, and the wind and rain are cold, as one drops slowly down the river.”
“There is home at the end, nevertheless,” answered the Dominican. “When we sit round the fire in the banquet hall, and all we love are round us, and the doors shut safe, we shall easily forget the cold wind on the water.”
“When! Yes. But I am on the water yet, and it may be some hours before my barge is moored at the garden steps. And—it is always the same, Father. It does seem strange, when there is only one earthly thing for which a man cares, that God should deny him that one thing. Why rouse the hope which is never to be fulfilled? If the width of the world had lain all our lives between me and my Lady, we should both have been happier. Why should God bring us together to spoil each other’s lives? For I dare say she is as little pleased with her lot as I with mine—poor Magot!”
“Will my Lord allow me to alter the figure he has chosen?” said the Predicant Friar. “Look at your own barge moored down below. If the rope were to break, what would become of the barge?”