At that time I loved and hated instinctively, as I think children do; and at seventeen years, I was a child in all things save by the almanac. I could rarely tell why I did not love people—only, I did not love them. I knew oftener why I did. I never thought much of Sir Piers de Gavaston, that the King so dearly affected, but I never hated him in a deadly fashion, as some did that I knew. I loved better Sir Hugh Le Despenser, that was afterwards Earl of Gloucester, for he—
“Sissot,” saith a voice behind me, “what is the name of that chronicle?”
“I cannot tell, Jack,” said I. “What wouldst have it called?”
“‘The Annals of Cicely,’” quoth he; “for she is beginning, middle, and end of it.”
I felt as though he had cast a pitcher of cold water over me. I sat looking at my parchment.
“Read it over, prithee,” saith he, “and count how many great I’s be therein.”
So did I, and by my troth there were seventy-seven. Seventy-seven of me! and all in six leaves of parchment, forsooth. How many soever shall there be by the time I make an end?
“That’s an ill beginning, Jack!” said I, and I felt ready to cry. “Must I begin over again?”
“Sissot,” quoth he, “nothing is ever undone in this world.”
“What mean you?” said I.