Assueton now came up, and Sir Patrick detailed to him the occurrences we have just narrated, after which he walked about, looking every now and then impatiently towards the window.
“Would I could have but one more sight of the Lady Eleanore,” cried he; “her features have already become faint in my mind’s eye; would I might refresh the picture by one other gaze.” But the lady appeared not; and he became vexed, [[56]]and even fretful, notwithstanding all his resolution to the contrary.
“Hepborne, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl? A knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere picking up; let it not irk thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach. Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than of the thorn.”
“Pshaw!” replied Hepborne, “thou knowest not what it is to love.”
“No, thank my good stars,” answered Assueton, “I do not, and I hope I shall never be so besotted; it makes a fool of a man. There, for instance, thou art raving about a damosel, of whose face thou hast seen so little that wert thou to meet her elsewhere thou couldst never tell her from another.”
“It is indeed true, Assueton,” replied Hepborne, “that I have seen but too little of her face; but I have seen enough of it to know that it is the face of an angel.”
In such converse as this did they spend the day until the evening’s banquet. Then Sir Walter exhibited the same hospitality towards his guests that had characterised him the night before; but he seemed to be less in spirits, nay, he was even sometimes peevish. Hepborne, too, being restless and unhappy, mirth and hilarity were altogether less prevalent at the upper end of the festal board than they had been the previous evening. The minstrel, however, was not forgotten, and was treated with the same personal attention as formerly; but he sang and played without eliciting more than an ordinary meed of applause. At last he struck some peculiarly powerful chords on the instrument, and as Hepborne turned his head towards him, in common with others, at the sound, old Adam caught his eye, and looking significantly, began to pour forth the following irregular and unpremeditated verse:—
’Twas thus that a minstrel address’d a young knight,
Who was love-lorn, despairing, and wan with despite,
What, Sir Knight, canst thou gain by these heart-rending sighs?