“Yes, yes,” said I, “but what has that to do with the maiden we speak of?”
He smiled on me pityingly.
“Such, poor youth, is she; and such, methinks, am I become, who sit at her feet and sun myself in her light—”
“’Tis dark down here,” I said, “but you seem to me neither swan, nor thrush, nor moon, nor a corn field, nor an ocean. But I thank you, even as you are, for coming.”
“’Tis a sign of a sound mind,” said he, “when gratitude answereth to graciousness. And now, prithee, how do you do?”
I told him I was better, and that I might not have mended so far, but for my dear master, Sir Ludar.
Then he bridled up and his cheeks coloured.
“Ah, Hercules is a good sailor, and a strong animal. ’Tis fit he should wait upon you, since you be in my present favour. Moreover, like cureth like, as it is said; therefore he is better here tending you, than casting sheep’s eyes on one who is as the sun above his head. I have had a mind to admonish him to remove the offence of his visage from her purview, for I perceived, by my own mislike of it, that it was a weariness to her. The pure glass is dimmed by the breath of the beholder, and a face at the window darkeneth a chamber.”
“Sir Ludar will be here soon,” said I; “I pray you stay and tell him this.”
“No,” said he, looking, I thought, a little alarmed. “If the cloud withdraw not from the sun’s path of his own motion, neither will he scatter for our bidding. Therefore, let him be. And, indeed, I stay here too long, my Dutchman. Who shall say but the dove sigheth already for her truant mate? So farewell; and count me thy patron.”