Sir Ludwig, the Hombourger, was NOT AT THE
OUTER GATE at daybreak.
He slept until ten of the clock. The previous night's potations had been
heavy, the day's journey had been long and rough. The knight slept as a
soldier would, to whom a featherbed is a rarity, and who wakes not till
he hears the blast of the reveille.
He looked up as he woke. At his bedside sat the Margrave. He had been
there for hours watching his slumbering comrade. Watching?--no, not
watching, but awake by his side, brooding over thoughts unutterably
bitter--over feelings inexpressibly wretched.
"What's o'clock?" was the first natural exclamation of the Hombourger.
"I believe it is five o'clock," said his friend. It was ten. It might
have been twelve, two, half-past four, twenty minutes to six, the
Margrave would still have said, "I BELIEVE IT IS FIVE O'CLOCK." The
wretched take no count of time: it flies with unequal pinions, indeed,
for THEM.
"Is breakfast over?" inquired the crusader.
"Ask the butler," said the Margrave, nodding his head wildly, rolling
his eyes wildly, smiling wildly.
"Gracious Bugo!" said the Knight of Hombourg, "what has ailed thee, my
friend? It is ten o'clock by my horologe. Your regular hour is nine.
You are not--no, by heavens! you are not shaved! You wear the tights and
silken hose of last evening's banquet.
Pages:
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354