"I know not, and care less."
"Gramercy! what aileth you this starlight even?"
"Is it starlight?" and the Duke lifted his eyes to the glowing heavens, clear in the frosty atmosphere. "I had not observed it."
"Good lack! you must be in the blues to-night. More shame for you! Here is nought but making ready for the Queen, whom my Lord of Warwick rideth for to meet as to-morrow. 'Tis thought the wind may give her leave to come across to-night."
"I do desire it, right heartily."
"Heigh-ho! do you desire anything right heartily, with that face?" said Earl Jaspar, laughing. "Come, my good Lord, what aileth you?"
"My Lord, I cry you mercy, for I wis well I am not merry company. I have this night spoken, as I think, a long farewell to mine only child. Let me pass, I pray you, till I can be more like my fellows, and come into your company without spoiling your mirth—if I ever can."
Jaspar stood looking at his friend with eyes of utter want of comprehension. Exeter "spoke to him who never had a child," and who, moreover, had but little sympathy with human sorrow. It was inconceivable to Jaspar why a man should bring his private sorrows into his political rejoicings, while to Exeter the difficulty would have been to allow the political joy to temper the private sorrow. Nor was Warwick a whit more sympathising. To weep for a woman, or anything that concerned one, was his emblem for masculine weakness of the extremest type. Exeter passed on, and sought refuge in his own chamber, where he lay down, but did not sleep, that night.
But when, the next morning, he presented himself as usual in the presence-chamber, he found that the Palace of Westminster held one Christ-like heart—a heart more at home in the house of mourning than in the house of feasting,—
"A heart at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathise."