"Your worship cannot but remember," said the smith, "that about three

years since, upon Saint Lucy's Eve, there came a travelling juggler to a

certain hall in Devonshire, and exhibited his skill before a worshipful

knight and a fair company.--I see from your worship's countenance, dark

as this place is, that my memory has not done me wrong."

"Thou hast said enough," said Tressilian, turning away, as wishing

to hide from the speaker the painful train of recollections which his

discourse had unconsciously awakened.

"The juggler," said the smith, "played his part so bravely that the

clowns and clown-like squires in the company held his art to be little

less than magical; but there was one maiden of fifteen, or thereby, with

the fairest face I ever looked upon, whose rosy cheek grew pale, and her

bright eyes dim, at the sight of the wonders exhibited."

"Peace, I command thee, peace!" said Tressilian.

"I mean your worship no offence," said the fellow; "but I have cause to

remember how, to relieve the young maiden's fears, you condescended

to point out the mode in which these deceptions were practised, and to

baffle the poor juggler by laying bare the mysteries of his art, as ably

as if you had been a brother of his order.--She was indeed so fair a

maiden that, to win a smile of her, a man might well--"

"Not a word more of her, I charge thee!" said Tressilian. "I do well

remember the night you speak of--one of the few happy evenings my life

has known."

"She is gone, then," said the smith, interpreting after his own fashion

the sigh with which Tressilian uttered these words--"she is gone, young,

beautiful, and beloved as she was!--I crave your worship's pardon--I

should have hammered on another theme. I see I have unwarily driven the

nail to the quick."

This speech was made with a mixture of rude feeling which inclined

Tressilian favourably to the poor artisan, of whom before he was

inclined to judge very harshly. But nothing can so soon attract the

unfortunate as real or seeming sympathy with their sorrows.

"I think," proceeded Tressilian, after a minute's silence, "thou wert in

those days a jovial fellow, who could keep a company merry by song, and

tale, and rebeck, as well as by thy juggling tricks--why do I find thee

a laborious handicraftsman, plying thy trade in so melancholy a dwelling

and under such extraordinary circumstances?"




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