u must be
my guide to your daughter's chamber door, and my apology for entering
it, to bid her good morrow, for the brightest that the sun will awaken,
in the city or for miles round."

"No bad advice, my son," said the honest glover, "But you, what will you
do? Will you lie down beside me, or take a part of Conachar's bed?"

"Neither," answered Harry Gow; "I should but prevent your rest, and
for me this easy chair is worth a down bed, and I will sleep like a
sentinel, with my graith about me." As he spoke, he laid his hand on his
sword.

"Nay, Heaven send us no more need of weapons. Goodnight, or rather good
morrow, till day peep; and the first who wakes calls up the other."

Thus parted the two burghers. The glover retired to his bed, and, it
is to be supposed, to rest. The lover was not so fortunate. His bodily
frame easily bore the fatigue which he had encountered in the course of
the night, but his mind was of a different and more delicate mould. In
one point of view, he was but the stout burgher of his period, proud
alike of his art in making weapons and wielding them when made; his
professional jealousy, personal strength, and skill in the use of arms
brought him into many quarrels, which had made him generally feared,
and in some instances disliked. But with these qualities were united the
simple good nature of a child, and at the same time an imaginative and
enthusiastic temper, which seemed little to correspond with his labours
at the forge or his combats in the field. Perhaps a little of the hare
brained and ardent feeling which he had picked out of old ballads, or
from the metrical romances, which were his sole source of information
or knowledge, may have been the means of pricking him on to some of
his achievements, which had often a rude strain of chivalry in them; at
least, it was certain that his love to the fair Catharine had in it a
delicacy such as might have become the squire of low degree, who was
honoured, if song speaks truth, with the smiles of the King of Hungary's
daughter. His sentiments towards her were certainly as exalted as if
they had been fixed upon an actual angel, which made old Simon, and
others who watched his conduct, think that his passion was too high
and devotional to be successful with maiden of mortal mould. They were
mistaken, however. Catharine, coy and reserved as she was, had a heart
which could feel and understand the nature and depth of the armourer's
passion; and whe