“Mr. Coffin!” said he, in a tone which compelled that gentleman to turn round, and so brought him under the power of a face which none could have beheld for five minutes and borne malice, so imploring, tender, earnest was it.  “My dear Mr. Coffin!  If my earnestness has made me forget even for a moment the bounds of courtesy, let me entreat you to forgive me.  Do not add to my heavy griefs, heavy enough already, the grief of losing a friend.  Only hear me patiently to the end (generously, I know, you will hear me); and then, if you are still incensed, I can but again entreat your forgiveness a second time.”

Mr. Coffin, to tell the truth, had at that time never been to Court; and he was therefore somewhat jealous of Frank, and his Court talk, and his Court clothes, and his Court company; and moreover, being the eldest of the guests, and only two years younger than Frank himself, he was a little nettled at being classed in the same category with some who were scarce eighteen.  And if Frank had given the least hint which seemed to assume his own superiority, all had been lost:  but when, instead thereof, he sued in forma pauperis, and threw himself upon Coffin’s mercy, the latter, who was a true-hearted man enough, and after all had known Frank ever since either of them could walk, had nothing to do but to sit down again and submit, while Frank went on more earnestly than ever.

“Believe me; believe me, Mr. Coffin, and gentlemen all, I no more arrogate to myself a superiority over you than does the sailor hurled on shore by the surge fancy himself better than his comrade who is still battling with the foam.  For I too, gentlemen,—­let me confess it, that by confiding in you I may, perhaps, win you to confide in me,—­have loved, ay and do love, where you love also.  Do not start.  Is it a matter of wonder that the sun which has dazzled you has dazzled me; that the lodestone which has drawn you has drawn me?  Do not frown, either, gentlemen.  I have learnt to love you for loving what I love, and to admire you for admiring that which I admire.  Will you not try the same lesson:  so easy, and, when learnt, so blissful?  What breeds more close communion between subjects than allegiance to the same queen? between brothers, than duty to the same father? between the devout, than adoration for the same Deity?  And shall not worship for the same beauty be likewise a bond of love between the worshippers? and each lover see in his rival not an enemy, but a fellow-sufferer?  You smile and say in your hearts, that though all may worship, but one can enjoy; and that one man’s meat must be the poison of the rest.  Be it so, though I deny it.  Shall we anticipate our own doom, and slay ourselves for fear of dying?  Shall we make ourselves unworthy of her from our very eagerness to win her, and show ourselves her faithful knights, by cherishing envy,—­most unknightly of all sins?  Shall we dream with the Italian or the Spaniard that we can become more amiable in a lady’s