Scarcely conscious how the night wore on, he was obliged to act his part.  Supper was announced; and he took his station where he could see the guests unmask as they entered to the banquet.

The tables were nearly filled, but the Silver Knight and his fair lady were still absent.  Grace Gerard is doubtless in her own chamber, was the host’s reply to some inquiry from Sir John:—­she had craved excuse from some slight indisposition.  But this did not satisfy him to whom it was addressed:  he suspected her chamber would be found unoccupied;—­his heart felt wasted and desolate;—­it was as if the whole fair face of nature were blotted out,—­the light being gone which rendered it visible.

“What ho!” said the king, “bring my Sienna knight a cup of hot sack and a merry-thought, for he seems melancholic and watchful—­a wary eye, but a silent tongue.  Sir John, are your wits a wool-gathering with your queen?”

“I am in my widowhood, most gracious prince,—­my queen having departed.”

“More fool thou, to fling thy heart after thy wits.  Come, honest Jack, we’ll have some minstrelsy after the feast,—­a merry troll and a short one.”

Sir John was well skilled in handling the lute and rebeck.  He had been early trained to their use; and many a kind glance and tender word he had won thereby.

The feast was over, and those hushed halls thrilled to the following ditty:—­

I.

    “They bade me sing, they bade me smile,
      They bade my heart be gay;
    They called my spirit forth, to while
      The laughing hours away. 
    I’ve sung, I’ve smiled:  where’er my path
      Mirth’s dazzling meteors shine: 
    All hearts have owned its magic power,
      And all are glad but mine.

II.

    “I’ve soothed the darkest surge of woe,
      And many a bosom blessed;
    Forbade the sufferer’s tear to flow,
      And brought the weary rest: 
    I’ve poured upon the bleeding heart
      The balm of Hope,—­the shrine
    Where holier, happier thoughts shall dwell;—­
      But who shall gladden mine?

III.

    “Forgive; ’tis but one short complaint,
      One pang I would reveal: 
    The wretch upon the torturing rack
      Is not forbid to feel! 
    Then laugh,—­let merry hearts to-night
      Their brightest wreaths entwine: 
    The flowers that bloom on every breast
      Will, withering, fade on mine!"[35]

Many were the bright eyes glittering on him through their long silken lashes; but Sir John looked downward,—­diligently noting something extraordinary in the disposition of his shoe-roses, or in the tie of his garter.

“One raven will set another croaking,” said Sir George.

“That we may escape a concert so detestable,” cried out Buckingham, “let Sir John Finett follow me, and we will reel with our fair dames, until cares whirl off like sling-stones.”