we spent together, was a
constant theme. He entered into the minutest details of the construction
of the armour, even to a peculiar mode of riveting some of the plates,
with unwearying interest. This armour I had intended to beg of the king,
as my sole memorials of the contest; but, when I saw the delight he took
in contemplating it, and the consolation it appeared to afford him in
his sorrow, I could not ask for it; but, at his request, left my own,
weapons and all, to be joined with theirs in a trophy, erected in the
grand square of the palace. The king, with gorgeous ceremony, dubbed me
knight with his own old hand, in which trembled the sword of his youth.

During the short time I remained, my company was, naturally, much
courted by the young nobles. I was in a constant round of gaiety and
diversion, notwithstanding that the court was in mourning. For the
country was so rejoiced at the death of the giants, and so many of their
lost friends had been restored to the nobility and men of wealth, that
the gladness surpassed the grief. "Ye have indeed left your lives to
your people, my great brothers!" I said.

But I was ever and ever haunted by the old shadow, which I had not seen
all the time that I was at work in the tower. Even in the society of the
ladies of the court, who seemed to think it only their duty to make
my stay there as pleasant to me as possible, I could not help being
conscious of its presence, although it might not be annoying me at the
time. At length, somewhat weary of uninterrupted pleasure, and nowise
strengthened thereby, either in body or mind, I put on a splendid suit
of armour of steel inlaid with silver, which the old king had given
me, and, mounting the horse on which it had been brought to me, took my
leave of the palace, to visit the distant city in which the lady dwelt,
whom the elder prince had loved. I anticipated a sore task, in conveying
to her the news of his glorious fate: but this trial was spared me, in a
manner as strange as anything that had happened to me in Fairy Land.

CHAPTER XXII

"No one has my form but the I."
Schoppe, in JEAN PAUL'S Titan.

"Joy's a subtil elf.
I think man's happiest when he forgets himself."
CYRIL TOURNEUR, The Revenger's Tragedy.

On the third day of my journey, I was riding gently along a road,
apparently little frequented, to judge from the grass that grew upon
it. I