"Nay, on my faith," replied I, laughing, "far be it from me to hazard any such assertion. Rather let me give you joy of your prosperous fortunes."
"Thanks, master page; and mayhap—as men, whether young or old, are ever envious—you would like to add that prosperity is not always a proof of merit. But be that as it may, I will, in this hostelry, rest my long limbs for a while ere I proceed to Westminster, and gladly drink a cup with thee for the sake of old acquaintance."
I accepted the invitation, and without delay we were seated and quaffing the wine of Bordeaux in the guest-room of the Falcon.
"Beshrew me, boy!" remarked Copeland, looking at me keenly as he raised his cup to his lips and took a long draught, "it grieves me to perceive that, young as you are, you have the marks of care on your face. What ails you?"
"I can scarce tell," replied I sadly; "but this I know—that, one short hour since, my heart was light and merry as the month of May."
"And what has since happened to sadden your brow?" asked he kindly.
"More than one thing has happened to discompose me; for, in truth, to be frank with you, I met, as I came hither, a young lord, of whom I know little, save that he is mine enemy, and that his hate seems as bitter as it is causeless. Now, as I wish to live in charity with all men, if I could, I own that, had I no other cause for sadness, this alone would vex my spirit."
"Of whom speak you?" asked Copeland, with unveiled curiosity.
"Of the young Lord De Ov," answered I.
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the Northernman.