“Nay, but not against a distress of the knight’s own fancying, yea, and contrary to the wishes of the damosel herself,” replied Hepborne. “What! wouldst thou throw down the gauntlet of defiance against thy friend, only for being willing to give his sister the man of her own heart?”
“And hath she then such?” exclaimed Assueton, his face suddenly becoming the very emblem of woe-begone anxiety.
“Yea, in good truth hath she, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick. “I did but suspect the truth last night, but this day I have been confirmed in it.”
“Then am I the most wretched of knights,” cried Assueton, at once forgetting all his guards; and rising hastily from his seat, he struck his breast, and paced the room in a frenzy of despair.
Hepborne could carry on the farce no longer. He burst into a fit of laughter that seemed to threaten his immediate dissolution; then threw himself on the couch, that he might give full way to it without fear of falling on the floor, and there he tossed to and fro with the reiterated convulsions it occasioned him. Assueton stood in mute astonishment for some moments, but at last he began to perceive that his friend had discovered his weakness, and that he had been all this time playing on him. He resumed his seat and position at the hearth, and returned again to his tattoo.
“So,” said Hepborne—“so—ha, ha, ha!—so!—ha, ha!—so!—Oh, I shall never find breath to speak—ha, ha, ha! So, Sir John Assueton, the woman-hater, the knight of Adamant, he who was wont to be known in France by the surnoms of the Knight sans Amour, and the Chevalier cœur caillou—who, rather than submit to talk to a woman, would hie him to the stable, to hold grave converse with his horse—who railed roundly at every unfortunate man that, following the ensample of his great ancestor Adam, did but submit himself to the yoke of love—who could not bear to hear the very name of love—who sickened when it was mentioned—who had an absolute antipathy to it, as some, they knew not why, have to cats or cheese—who, though he liked music to admiration, would avoid the place if love but chanced to be the minstrel’s theme;—he, Sir John Assueton, is at last enslaved, has his wounds bound up by a woman, and wears her scarf—plays the lady’s knight, and [[105]]leads her palfrey rein—rownes soft things in her ear, hangs o’er her harp, and drinks in the sweet love-verses she sings to him!”
“Nay, nay, Hepborne, my dearest friend,” said Assueton, starting up, and clasping his hands together in an imploring attitude, “I confess, I confess; but sith I do confess, have mercy on me, I entreat thee; ’tis cruel to sport with my sufferings, since thou knowest, alas, too surely that I must love in vain.”
“But, pr’ythee, ‘why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl?’ ” said Hepborne ironically, bringing up against him some of the very expressions he had used to himself at Norham. “ ‘A knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere picking up; let it not erke thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach.’ ” And then rising, and striding gravely up to Assueton, and shaking his head solemnly—“ ‘Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than the thorn.’ Ha, ha, ha! Oh, ’tis exquisite—by St. Dennis, ’tis the richest treat I ever enjoyed.”
“Nay, but bethink thee, my dear friend,” said Assueton, with an imploring look; “bethink thee, I beseech thee, what misery I am enduring, and reflect how much thou art augmenting it by thy raillery. Depardieux, I believe thou never didst suffer such pain from love as I do now.”
“ ‘No, thank my good stars,’ ” said Hepborne, returning to the charge, and again assuming a burlesque solemnity of air and tone, “ ‘and I hope, moreover, I never shall be so besotted: it makes a very fool of a man.’ ”