A groan answered me.

“Hullo!” I went on, making a hasty guess at his case.  “Has the little cordwainer’s tall daughter jilted you, as I promised she would?”

“A curse on this age!” swore Nat, who ever carried his heart on his sleeve.

I began to hum—­

     “I loved a lass, a fair one,
        As fair as e’er was seen;
      She was indeed a rare one,
        Another Sheba queen. 
      Her waist exceeding small,
        The fives did fit her shoe;
      But now alas! sh’ ’as left me,
        Falero, lero, loo!”

“Curse the age!” repeated Nat, viciously.  “If these were Lancelot’s days now, a man could run mad in the forest and lie naked and chew sticks; and then she’d be sorry.”

     “In summer time to Medley
        My love and I would go;
      The boatmen there stood read’ly
        My love and me to row,”

sang I, and ducked my head to avoid the cushion he hurled.  “Well then, there’s very pretty forest land around my home in Cornwall, with undergrowth and dropped twigs to last you till Michaelmas term.  So why not ride down with me and spend at least the fore-part of your madness there?”

“I hate your Cornwall.”

“’Tis a poor rugged land,” said I; “but hath this convenience above your own home, that it contains no nymphs to whom you have yet sworn passion.  You may meet ours with a straight brow; and they are fair, too, and unembarrassed, though I won’t warrant them if you run bare.”

“’Tis never I that am inconstant.”

“Never, Nat; ’tis she, always and only—­” she, she, and only she”—­ and there have been six of her to my knowledge.”

“If I were a king, now—­”

“T’cht!” said I (for as my best friend, and almost my sole one, he knew my story).

“If a fellow were a king now—­instead of being doomed to the law—­ oh, good Lord!”

“You are incoherent, dear lad,” said I; “and yet you tell me one thing plainly enough; which is that in place of loving this one or that one, or the cordwainer’s strapping daughter, you are in love with being in love.”

“Well, and why not?” he demanded.  “Were I a king, now, that is even what I would be—­in love with being in love.  Were I a king, now, so deep in love were I with being in love, that my messengers should compass earth to fetch me the right princess.  Yes, and could they not reach to her, if I but heard of one hidden and afar that was worth my loving, I would build ships and launch them, enlist crews and armies, sail all seas and challenge all wars, to win her.  If I were king, now, my love should dwell in the fastnesses of the mountains, and I would reach her; she should drive me to turn again and gather the bones of the seamen I had dropped overboard, and I would turn and dredge the seas for them; for a whim she should demand to watch me at the task, and gangs of slaves should level mountains to open a prospect from her window; nay, all this while she should deny me sight of her, and I would embrace that last hardship that in the end she might be the dearer prize, a queen worthy to seat beside me.  Man, heave your great lubberly bones out of that chair and salute a poor devil whom, as you put it, a cordwainer’s daughter has jilted.”