house, sitting alone in
this gloomy chamber, served by this frightened boy, by that old man
whose gaze was ever greedy for the quiver of an eyelid, the pressing
together of white lips, whose coarse and prying hand ever strayed
towards the unhealed sore. He strode to the table and laid hands upon
the tankard. "The dust of the road is in my throat," he explained, and
drank deep of the wine, then put the tankard down and turned to the
figure yet standing in the cold light as in an atmosphere all its own.

"Mortimer Ferne," he said, "I came here as thy aforetime friend. I will
not believe that it is my stirrup-cup that I have drunk."

"Ay, your stirrup-cup," answered the other, steadily. "Nowadays I see no
company--my aforetime friend."

"That word was ill chosen," began Arden, hastily. "I meant not--"

"I care not what you meant," said Sir Mortimer, and sitting down at the
table, shaded his eyes with his hand. "Of all my needs the least is now
a friend. Go your ways to the town and be merry there, forgetting this
limbo and me, who wander to and fro in its shadows." Suddenly he struck
his hand with force against the table and started to his feet, pushing
from him with a grating sound the heavy oaken settle. "Go!" he cried.
"The players and mummers are there. Go sit upon the stage, and in the
middle of the play cry to your neighbors: 'These be no actors! Why, once
I knew a man who could so mask it that he deceived himself!' There are
quacksalvers who will sell you anything. Go buy some ointment for your
eyes will show you the coiled serpent at the bottom of a man's heart!
Travellers!--ask them if Prester John can see the canker where the fruit
seems fairest. Nipped courtiers! laugh with them at one against whom
blow all the winds of hell, blast after blast, driving his soul before
them! Ballad-mongers--"

He paused, laughed, then beckoned to him Robin-a-dale. "Sirrah," he
said, "Master Arden ever loved a good song. Now sing him the ballad we
heard when the devil drove us to town last Wednesday."

"I--I have forgotten it, master," answered the boy, and cowered against
the wall.

"You lie!" cried Ferne, and the table shook again beneath his hand. "Did
I not exercise you in it until you were perfect? Sing!"

The boy opened his mouth and there came forth a heart-broken sound. His
master stamped upon the floor. "Shall I not also torture where I can?
Sing, Robin, my man! Fling back your head and sing like the lark in the