ir last respects to the young crusader; and to leave
indigestion, perhaps, as a reminder of their fealty. From the
barnyard, ten little porkers, roasted whole; one ox, four
sheep--only the best joints of these, the rest given away; and two
succulent calves.

Of the pastry--twelve gallons cream, twenty gallons curds, three
bushels of last autumn's apples were the foundation; two bushels of
flour; almonds and raisins. Yes, they had already got them in
England.

In point of variety, they a little overdid it; sometimes mingling
wine, cheese, honey, raisins, olives, eggs, yea, and vinegar, all
in one grand dish. It sets the teeth on edge to think of it.

As for the wines, there were Bordeaux (Gascon), and Malmsey
(Rhenish), and Romeneye, Bastard and Osey (very sweet the last
two); and for liquors hippocras and clary (not claret).

All was profusion, not to say waste, but the poor had a good time
afterwards. And when the desire of eating and drinking was
satisfied, the harpers and gleemen began; and first the chief
harper, with hoary beard, sang his solo:

Sometimes in the night watch,
Half seen in the gloaming,
Come visions advancing, advancing, retreating
All into the darkness.

And the harps responded in deep minor chords:
All into the darkness.

We dream that we clasp them,
The forms of our dear ones.
When, lo, as we touch them,
They leave us and vanish
On wings that beat lightly
The still paths of slumber.

Very softly the harps:
The still paths of slumber.

They left in high valour
The land of their boyhood,
And sorrowful patience
Awaits their returning
While love holds expectant
Their homes in our bosoms.

Sweetly the harps:
Their homes in our bosoms.

In high hope they left us
In sorrow with weeping
Their loved ones await them.
For lo, to their greeting
Instead of our heroes
Come only their phantoms.

The harps deep and low:
Come only their phantoms.

We weep as we reckon
The deeds of their glory--
Of this one the wisdom,
Of that one the valour:
And they in their beauty
Sleep sound in their death shrouds.

The harps dismally:
Sleep sound in their death shrouds {22}.

"Stop! stop!" said Sir Nicholas, for tears rose to his lady's eyes.
"No more of this. Strike up some more hopeful lay. What mean you by
such boding?"

"Let the heir stay with us," cried the guests.

"Nay; I have striven in vain that so it might be, but his father,
Sir Roger, wills otherwise, and the son can but ob