“There is something left to live for yet,” were the first words he uttered; and while he spoke, he gave vent to his feelings in a paroxysm of weeping, the tears chasing each other down his sunburnt cheeks and long white beard.

“I ne’er thought to have thanked God to see my master weep,” said Will Badger; “but now I do, though I am like to weep for company.”

“I will ask thee no questions,” said the old knight; “no questions—­none, Edmund.  Thou hast not found her—­or so found her, that she were better lost.”

Tressilian was unable to reply otherwise than by putting his hands before his face.

“It is enough—­it is enough.  But do not thou weep for her, Edmund.  I have cause to weep, for she was my daughter; thou hast cause to rejoice, that she did not become thy wife.—­Great God! thou knowest best what is good for us.  It was my nightly prayer that I should see Amy and Edmund wedded,—­had it been granted, it had now been gall added to bitterness.”

“Be comforted, my friend,” said the curate, addressing Sir Hugh, “it cannot be that the daughter of all our hopes and affections is the vile creature you would bespeak her.”

“Oh, no,” replied Sir Hugh impatiently, “I were wrong to name broadly the base thing she is become—­there is some new court name for it, I warrant me.  It is honour enough for the daughter of an old Devonshire clown to be the leman of a gay courtier—­of Varney too—­of Varney, whose grandsire was relieved by my father, when his fortune was broken, at the battle of—­the battle of—­where Richard was slain—­out on my memory!—­and I warrant none of you will help me—­”

“The battle of Bosworth,” said Master Mumblazen—­“stricken between Richard Crookback and Henry Tudor, grandsire of the Queen that now is, Primo Henrici SEPTIMI; and in the year one thousand four hundred and eighty-five, post CHRISTUM NATUM.”

“Ay, even so,” said the old knight; “every child knows it.  But my poor head forgets all it should remember, and remembers only what it would most willingly forget.  My brain has been at fault, Tressilian, almost ever since thou hast been away, and even yet it hunts counter.”

“Your worship,” said the good clergyman, “had better retire to your apartment, and try to sleep for a little space.  The physician left a composing draught; and our Great Physician has commanded us to use earthly means, that we may be strengthened to sustain the trials He sends us.”

“True, true, old friend,” said Sir Hugh; “and we will bear our trials manfully—­we have lost but a woman.—­See, Tressilian,”—­he drew from his bosom a long ringlet of glossy hair,—­“see this lock!  I tell thee, Edmund, the very night she disappeared, when she bid me good even, as she was wont, she hung about my neck, and fondled me more than usual; and I, like an old fool, held her by this lock, until she took her scissors, severed it, and left it in my hand—­as all I was ever to see more of her!”