The page clasped his hands on his breast, and, throwing up his eyes to Heaven, “Grant but that my love may yet prosper,” said he, fervently; “grant but that, ye blessed Virgin, and the sun shall not be more constant to the firmament, than I shall be in the attachment to the object of my affection! But couldst thou be constant, Sir Knight?” added he, with a sigh.
“’Tis an odd question, boy,” said Hepborne, laughing. “I think I know so much of myself as to say boldly that I could; and, verily, I would never mate me where I weened there might be risk of temptation to aught else. But, of a truth, I have not yet seen the woman of whom I might think so highly as to risk chaining my virtue to her side.”
The page sat silent for some moments, and at length, turning to Hepborne, “I have seen knights,” said he, “who did roune sweet speeches in the ears of foolish maidens, who did swear potent oaths that they did love them, and yet, when the silly pusels believed them, they would laugh at their facile credence, and then, leaping into their saddles, ride away, making mirth of the sad wounds they had caused. Say, Sir Knight, couldst thou do this?”
“Depardieux, mon bel ami Maurice de Grey,” said the knight, laughing, “methinks thou hast made thyself my father confessor to-night. What meanest thou by these questions?”
“In truth, my dear master,” said the boy, “I do but ask, that I may better myself by the wisdom of thine answers. How should I, an untaught youth, ever become an honour to knighthood, as I hope one day to be, save by thy sage precept and bright example?”
“Nay, then, sweet page,” said the knight, kindly, “I shall [[219]]not deny to answer thee. In good sooth, I have never yet been so base, nor could I ever be guilty of so much wickedness.”
The page’s eyes brightened for a moment at the knight’s virtuous assertion.
“There be women indeed,” continued Sir Patrick, “to whom it is even dangerous for a courteous knight to address the common parlance of courtly compliment, without instilling into them the vain belief that their charms have wrought a conquest. Of such an innocent fault the folly of many maidens may have made me guilty. Never, save once, did I seriously love, and then, alas, I discovered that my heart had been affected by an unworthy object, so that I did forthwith tear myself from her.”
“Unworthy, didst thou say, Sir Knight?” cried the boy, earnestly; “and who, I pray thee, could be so unworthy to thee?”
“Nay, my good Maurice,” said Hepborne, “that were truly to ask too much. Were she as worthy as I did once esteem her, I would proudly publish her name to the world; but after having said so much to her dishonour, and now that she cannot be mine, her name shall never more escape these lips whilst I think of her as I at present do, save when ’tis brought in accidentally by others, or when ’tis murmured in my secret despair. But what ails thee, boy? Thou weepest. Tell me, I pray thee, why thou shouldst now be thus drent in dreriment? What hast thou to do with my love-griefs?”