“I would your princess were alive,” I said presently.
“So do I,” he answered softly. “So do I.” Locking his hands behind his head, he raised his quiet face to the evening star. “Brave and wise and gentle,” he mused. “If I did not think to meet her again, beyond that star, I could not smile and speak calmly, Ralph, as I do now.”
“ ’Tis a strange thing,” I said, as I refilled my pipe. “Love for your brother-in-arms, love for your commander if he be a commander worth having, love for your horse and dog, I understand. But wedded love! to tie a burden around one’s neck because ’tis pink and white, or clear bronze, and shaped with elegance! Faugh!”
“Yet I came with half a mind to persuade thee to that very burden!” he cried, with another laugh.
“Thanks for thy pains,” I said, blowing blue rings into the air.
“I have ridden to-day from Jamestown,” he went on. “I was the only man, i’ faith, that cared to leave its gates; and I met the world—the bachelor world—flocking to them. Not a mile of the way but I encountered Tom, Dick, and Harry, dressed in their Sunday bravery and making full tilt for the city. And the boats upon the river! I have seen the Thames less crowded.”
“There was more passing than usual,” I said; “but I was busy in the fields, and did not attend. What’s the lodestar?”
“The star that draws us all,—some to ruin, some to bliss ineffable,—woman.”
“Humph! The maids have come, then?”
He nodded. “There’s a goodly ship down there, with a goodly lading.”