“Certes. I regard thine full diligently.”
“But other folks, that be nought to thee, I would say.”
“If the folks be nought to me, wherefore should the thoughts be of import? Securely, good wife, but very little. I shall sleep the sweeter for those fardels: and I count I should sleep none the worser if man laughed at me. The blessing of the poor and the blessing of the Lord be full apt to go together: and dost thou reckon I would miss that—yea, so much as one of them—out of regard for that which is, saith Solomon, ‘sonitum spinarum sub olla’? (Ecclesiastes chapter seven, verse 6). Ha, jolife! let the thorns crackle away, prithee; they shall not burn long.”
“Jack,” said I, “thou art the best man ever lived!”
“Rhyme on, my fair trouvere,” quoth he. (Troubadour. Their lays were usually legends and fictitious tales.) “But, Sissot, to speak sooth, I will tell thee, if thou list to hearken, what it is keepeth my steps from running into many a by-way, and mine heart from going astray after many a flower sown of Satan in my path.”
“Do tell me, Jack,” said I.
“There be few days in my life,” saith he, “that there cometh not up afore mine eyes that Bar whereat I shall one day stand, and that Book out of the which all my deeds shall be read afore men and angels. And I have some concern for the thoughts of them that look on, that day, rather than this. Many a time—ay, many a time twice told—in early morn or in evening twilight, have I looked up into heaven, and the thought hath swept o’er me like a fiery breeze—‘What if our Lord be coming this minute?’ Dost thou reckon, Sissot, that man to whom such thoughts be familiar friends, shall be oft found sitting in the alebooth, or toying with frothy vanities? I trow not.”
“But, Jack!” cried I, letting all else drop, “is that all real to thee?”
“Real, Sissot? There is not another thing as real in life.”
I burst forth. I could not help it.