th
romance and poesy and first love? Why, instead of gazing on that
uncomfortable orb, art thou not quickening thy steps towards a cozy inn
and a good supper at Oxford? Kenelm, my friend, thou art in for it. No
disguising the fact: thou art in love!"

"I'll be hanged if I am," said the Second in the Dualism of Kenelm's
mind; and therewith he shifted his knapsack into a pillow, turned his
eyes from the moon, and still could not sleep. The face of Lily still
haunted his eyes; the voice of Lily still rang in his ears.

Oh, my reader! dost thou here ask me to tell thee what Lily was
like?--was she dark? was she fair? was she tall? was she short? Never
shalt thou learn these secrets from me. Imagine to thyself the being to
which thine whole of life, body and mind and soul, moved irresistibly as
the needle to the pole. Let her be tall or short, dark or fair, she is
that which out of all womankind has suddenly become the one woman for
thee. Fortunate art thou, my reader, if thou chance to have heard the
popular song of "My Queen" sung by the one lady who alone can sing it
with expression worthy the verse of the poetess and the music of the
composition, by the sister of the exquisite songstress. But if thou hast
not heard the verse thus sung, to an accompaniment thus composed, still
the words themselves are, or ought to be, familiar to thee, if thou art,
as I take for granted, a lover of the true lyrical muse. Recall then
the words supposed to be uttered by him who knows himself destined to do
homage to one he has not yet beheld:--

"She is standing somewhere,--she I shall honour,
She that I wait for, my queen, my queen;
Whether her hair be golden or raven,
Whether her eyes be hazel or blue,
I know not now, it will be engraven
Some day hence as my loveliest hue.
She may be humble or proud, my lady,
Or that sweet calm which is just between;
But whenever she comes, she will find me ready
To do her homage, my queen, my queen."

Was it possible that the cruel boy-god "who sharpens his arrows on the
whetstone of the human heart" had found the moment to avenge himself
for the neglect of his altars and the scorn of his power? Must that
redoubted knight-errant, the hero of this tale, despite the Three Fishes
on his charmed shield, at last veil the crest and bow the knee, and
murmur to himself, "She has come, my queen"?

CHAPTER VIII.

THE next morning Kenelm arrived at Oxford,--"Veru