the
contempt he asserted; I have noticed that men pay heed to these things
however much they laugh at them. At the end, growing excited not only
with the wine but with the fumes of life which had been mounting into my
young brain all the day, I leapt up, crying aloud:

"And isn't it true? Shan't I know what he hides? Shan't I drink of his
cup? For isn't it true? Don't I already, to my infinite misery, love
where he loves?" For the picture of Nell had come suddenly across me in
renewed strength and sweetness; when I had spoken I dropped again into
my chair and laid my head down on my arms.

Silence followed; Darrell had no words of consolation for my woes and
left my love-lorn cry unheeded; presently then (for neglected sorrows do
not thrive) I looked furtively at him between the fingers of my hand. He
sat moody, thoughtful, and frowning. I raised my head and met his eyes.
He leant across the table, saying in a sneering tone, "A fine witch, on
my life! You should know what he hides?"

"Aye."

"And drink of his cup?"

"Aye, so she said."

He sat sunk in troubled thought, but I, being all this night torn to and
fro by changing and warring moods, sprang up again and cried in
boisterous scorn, "What, you believe these fables? Does God reveal
hidden things to old crones? I thought you at Court were not the fools
of such fancies! Aren't they fitter for rustic churls, Mr Darrell? God
save us, do we live in the days of King James?"

He answered me shortly and sternly, as though I had spoken of things not
to be named lightly.

"It is devil's work, all of it."

"Then the devil is busier than he seems, even after a night at Court," I
said. "But be it whose work it will, I'll do it. I'll find what he
hides. I'll drink of his cup. Come, you're glum! Drink, friend Darrell!
Darrell, what's in his cup, what does he hide? Darrell, what does the
King hide?"

I had caught him by the shoulder and was staring in his face. I was all
aglow, and my eyes, no doubt, shone bright with excitement and the
exhilaration of the wine. The look of me, or the hour of the night, or
the working of his own superstition, got hold of him, for he sprang up,
crying madly:

"My God, do you know?" and glared into my face as though I had been the
very devil of whom I spoke.

We stood thus for a full minute. But I grew cool before my companion,
wonder working the change in me sooner than confusion could in him. For
my random ravings had most marvel