One morning, some days after this bedside gathering, when I met Hazel in the park, as was now my wont, her eyes were red with weeping.
"Come, come, my fair one, thou must not look so unhappy, or else I shall fear that thou hast ceased to love me. Now tell me what is the matter, that I may console thee."
"Hast thou then not heard the news?" she asked.
"I have not," I replied, "it must be evil news indeed, to make thee so unhappy."
"The King is dead," she said.
"When did he die?"
"About an hour since;" and then she wiped her eyes again.
"Why dost thou weep so for the King?" I asked; for I did not like to see Hazel weeping because another man had died.
"Oh, thou stupid!" she cried out impatiently; "cannot you see that it is on the poor Queen's account? I love her as I did my own dear, and now dead, mother; and when I see her in such sorrow it maketh me to feel as if 'twere mine own."
I felt abashed for not having seen this for myself; but men are so thick headed, in these matters, that they can never know the way a woman looks at things until she doth explain herself. Now I had rather face a regiment, single handed, than see a woman weep; so I stood there as on a pillory, saying nothing, but feeling uncommon uncomfortable.